The Doctor's Wife
by SherlockedWhovian9
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has lost his best friend John Watson to, of all things, a marriage. He's approached by a mysterious woman who has an interesting proposition: Help her find her wandering husband and she'll distract him with travels through space and time. He doesn't take flown-spouse cases, but when she's able to prove she is what she claims, he can't resist his curiosity.
1. Hello

Chapter One

Hello

_The Last of the Time Lords._

If she got her way, that's what she would be when this was all over. Seven hundred years since she'd last seen him, that unstable, quirky, half-mad fool she'd married oh, so very long ago. Seven hundred years since he'd stolen a TARDIS and left Gallifrey with their granddaughter and not so much as a _by your leave_ to her. She'd gone through the standard coping methods, the processes she preached to those she tried to help: _Give yourself time to reflect. Give yourself permission to feel what needs to be felt. Be brave. Be private. And in all things, be honest._ She had done all of that, allowing herself to feel something totally foreign: Grief. She grieved the loss of that strange idiot because somehow, in the nearly three hundred years she'd known him, she'd allowed herself to love him.

The worst of it was that she hadn't seen it coming, none of it. She had been given her title, her _name_, because she could see things, understand them, process them quickly, and explain them better than any of the other Time Lords. There had been no better telepath in tens of thousands of years, and there had been no more prestigious pedigree. She had been exceptional from the day of her birth.

Her husband, however, had not been allowed the same privileges of birth. It had been a surprise to everyone when he'd been awarded a place at the Academy, and an even bigger surprise that his odd heritage seemed to lend itself to his specialty: an advanced intuition and an almost hyperkinetic sense of calculation, making his every action seem like a lucky guess. Low-born and brilliant – what better attractant could there be to Gallifreyan nobility?

She shook her head and felt a twinge in her neck. She had only regenerated once in her life, and it seemed to be coming time to do it again.

_But not yet. First I have to find . . .something. Someone. Someone to help me find . . ._him.

She cast her thoughts out in the old way, the instinctive way, searching for a compatible mind, an exceptional mind, even if had to be a human mind. There were no options. Her TARDIS had a faulty fuel coil – probably due to repeatedly punching through the multiverse to find the correct universe – and she had to give it time to recharge itself after her repairs. Surely there was a human extraordinary enough to help her.

_I have to forget him. The Doctor. My Doctor. I have to press on. Somehow I have to keep going until –_

Those hadn't been her thoughts, but they were so close to her own that they startled her. She became aware of her surroundings – _nearby. This mind, it's nearby. And it's exceptional, so remarkable._

She stood and followed the neural trail that would lead her to that mind.

* * *

_This is pointless. He's married now – of course you can't text him._

He shoved the mobile back in his pocket and sighed. He lifted the glass of absinthe to his lips with a shaking hand. The strong scent of the liquor assaulted his sense of smell: Anise, that cloying sweetness, the licorice smell of it. He smiled faintly, but it was a bitter, angry smile. He took a sip and winced.

He put the glass back down on the bar and yanked the phone back out of his pocket. _Just because he's married doesn't mean I can't reach out to him, does it? _

_Are you bored yet? –SH_

He studied the message. Should he send it? Was it childish? It was childish, yes. Of course the man wasn't bored yet. He was newly married, off snogging his new wife on an island paradise somewhere, no doubt. The last conversation they'd had made it clear that the life they'd shared was over.

_"You'll get bored."_

_"No, I won't."_

_"How can you know that? Married life seems incredibly dull. It's why so many marriages end, you know."_

_"And you think that will happen to Mary and me, do you?"_

_"I'm nearly certain of it."_

_"I'm not having this conversation with you. I'm tired of being your experiment."_

_"Come now. I may have tested out a few theories on you, but you yourself were never an experiment."_

_"Do you know why you had to test theories on me? Because you needed to know how a human would react to certain situations. You needed a human pet, a guinea pig. He was right about that, you know. I was a pet. And I'm tired, so _tired_, of being your pet."_

_"Don't exaggerate."_

_"I'm not exaggerating. It's all true. Besides, I don't understand why you're so dissatisfied with this situation. You've always been married to your work. I'm removing myself from your relationship. No more blog. No more aggravating flatmate. Enjoy your work the way you did before I came along. It's what you're good at."_

Not another word was spoken, not even during the wedding ceremony. He hadn't been asked to stand with the man who had been his closest friend, his only friend. He'd been in a pew near the back, watching the vows being said and not understanding how this could be any better than the life they'd had together. He'd skipped the reception. It would have been too much farce.

And now here he was, the resurrected consulting detective, getting plastered in a bar. He'd gotten a few texts – potential work – but he'd ignored them. He was unhappy, and he was disappointed with himself.

_I have to forget him. The Doctor. My Doctor._

Yes, that was the answer. Forgetfulness. And that was why he'd ordered the absinthe. Vehicle to the stars, this stuff, if the bohemian artists of the last century were to be believed. And wouldn't he just love to see the stars? See for himself what planets revolved around which stars. Disconnect from the part of his mind that analyzed things and just drift for a while.

He grunted. _I could never disconnect._

He suddenly became aware that he was being watched. He turned on his bar stool and looked over his shoulder. Standing in the door of the tavern was a woman – not The Woman, not Irene Adler, but something about her attitude and expression reminded him of her. She was approximately five and a half feet tall, with sandy blonde hair and tawny skin, like she'd been sunning herself under a cloudless sky somewhere. But the most remarkable thing about her was her eyes – from even this distance he could see that they were almost golden, a bright bronze color that was alarming and unsettling.

_Clothes – silk, expensive, finely tailored, therefore affluent. Hands clean, manicured but not fussy. Hair showing strands of gray, so not fussy on that score, either. No visible cosmetics. Signs of athleticism, but not trying very hard at it. Everything clean – no pets, no bad habits, no recent meals. _

The only clue he had about her was the strange jewelry she was wearing on her hands – bracelets connected to rings on her index fingers by thin silver strands. A few random images flashed through his mind, images of similar jewelry fetishes called _slave bracelets_, but the items this woman wore were not decorative – no flourishes, no jewels, no adornments. They seemed simple, efficient, and practical.

Despite himself he felt his lips quirk into a hint of a smile. _If she's offering work, I'm accepting._

She approached him, her gait confident and as efficient as her clothing. Her face was neutral, passive. He turned towards her and felt calmer, less anxious. Except for his trembling hands, he hadn't fully registered his own anxiety.

"Hello," he said.

"Tell me about the Doctor," she said, sliding into the stool next to him. That got his attention. No greeting, just right to work. It was something he would have done – it was something he _had_ done. Besides, her voice was odd. _American accent. That's strange. Tourist, perhaps. Or CIA. Tossers._

"Are you on the clock?" he asked.

"Sorry?"

"Did Mycroft send you? Checking up on me, is he?"

"Is Mycroft the Doctor?"

He frowned. _She's focused. If she's not on the clock, I'm a Soviet spy._ "You know he isn't."

"How do I know that?"

"Because he sent you after me."

"Who did? The Doctor?"

He finally, fully turned towards her. Her strange bronze eyes bored into him. _Focused, yes, so very focused. _He sifted through his questions, so many questions, so much he wanted to know. She hadn't verified any association with his brother Mycroft, but she hadn't denied it either; even so, he suddenly doubted that assumption.

_If she isn't from Mycroft, then who is she? And why does she keep asking about the doctor? Which doctor? John?_

He finally asked the only question that mattered:

"Doctor Who?"


	2. The TARDIS

"What do you mean, Doctor Who? _The_ Doctor." The woman was staring at him as if she expected him to understand.

His small smile faded. "There's more than one, you know. Universities all over the world produce them by the dozens every year."

She waved that away impatiently. "I don't mean physicians or psychologists or subject specialists. I mean . . ." she let the words hang in the air, an expression of sudden understanding on her face. "Oh." She finally refocused on him and gave him a curt, polite smile. "I understand. I'm sorry – my apologies. So sorry for wasting your time. Thank you."

He watched as she slid off the stool and headed for the tavern door. He frowned, his thoughts racing: _Not a physician, psychologist – I'm sure she meant _psychiatrist_ – and not a subject specialist. But a doctor. What does that mean? Who is she talking about? And why was she asking me?_

He slid off his stool also, absent-mindedly dropping a few pound notes on the bar, and followed her out the door. "Wait."

She turned to look over her shoulder and he saw annoyance flash across her features. "I thought you were someone else. Good day."

"Why did you approach me back there? Who are you?"

She turned on him and her annoyance had blossomed into a full-blown grimace of contempt. "It physically _pains_ you to have to ask me that, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"The great detective, that's who you are. I recognize you now. You should somehow be able to make out what I am, what I do, where I'm from, and you're simply not able. It's—"

"You're a wealthy American, unmarried, no family. Judging by your accent, you're from somewhere on the west coast – but not California, the accent isn't quite long enough. You don't smoke and you're not a drinker, no family – therefore you live for your work. You have a singular focus that I recognize. And you're in England on a mission to find some doctor, but you – can't describe him. Why is that? You've met him, otherwise your focus wouldn't be so acute. He wronged you, probably a romantic attachment – and judging by your reaction, definitely a romantic attachment. So here you are, across an ocean, seeking a romantic attachment who you can't describe. Disguised. Maybe living under an alias, but a doctor of some sort."

As he talked, he watched her. Her expression changed from cold contempt to something warmer. _Delight._

"Ah, you are good." She held out her hand. "I'm the Counsellor. Sherlock Holmes, I presume."

He slipped his hand into hers for a simple handshake. He was going to ask her for her _name_, her actual name, but the impulse was stopped dead. His mind palace was being invaded.

_I am the Counsellor. It's the only name you need. My other name is carefully shielded; only my husband knows it, and he's the only one who needs it. Come with me, Sherlock. Help me. If you let me, I will show you the whole of time and space. I will help to heal your broken heart._

As her voice whispered in his mind, he saw explosions, constellations spinning in infinity, the whirling heart of pulsars, landscapes foreign and amazing – and at the very heart of it, a planet that took his breath away, large and rust-colored, encircled by crystalline rings and orbited by two shining moons. The image shifted in his mind until he could make out two suns, one so large and bronze it seemed to swallow the sky. He plunged closer in to the surface of the planet and saw a large city domed in glass, graceful spires rising proudly up to the top of the dome.

_This was my home. Gallifrey, the Shining World of the Seven Systems, and that city is called the Citadel. You're seeing a memory, Sherlock – just a memory. The Citadel is gone. Gallifrey is a burning husk. All destroyed. And all because of one selfish idiot who cared more for humans than he did for any of us – even me._

He pulled his hand away like it was burning. He was unnerved, more violently confused than he had been since the time of HOUND. "How – how did you –"

It was hard to focus on her, but he did see a cold smile on her face. "It wasn't a trick and it wasn't a drug. Come with me, Sherlock. Let me show you wonders; let me distract you."

He staggered after her, confused, still trying to understand what had just happened. "And what do you get in return?"

She approached a small storage shed in a darkened alley, inconspicuous in the rubble and the dark. She turned back and blessed him with an honest, glorious smile. "I've just retained the services of the infamous Sherlock Holmes. What do you think I'll need from you?"

She firmly gripped the door handle to the storage shed and gave it a jiggle, the slave bracelet on her right hand glittering in the darkness. The door opened. She looked at him again. The smile was gone, replaced with that flat efficient expression from before.

"We're going in there?" he asked, drawing closer to the shed. It was roughly nine feet tall, three feet deep, and five feet wide.

Her lips flattened. "Yes, of course."

He sighed. "I think I should explain, Miss – er . . ."

"Counsellor."

"I think I should explain, Counsellor – I am not interested –"

"Spare me," she said and stepped into the shed.

He looked around the alley and pondered his choices. He could follow this strange, intriguing, but clearly mad woman into the shed and possibly meet his death at her hands, or he could simply walk away from all this. Amend that: Run away from all this. It couldn't be good. It was possibly very dangerous.

But that was the point, wasn't it? Sherlock Holmes loved danger, thrived on it. Unraveling the dangerous things was his purpose, everything he needed before that damned little military doctor came into his life. This was a puzzle of the highest magnitude, and he was drawn like a moth to the flame. _How had she gotten into his head? Was it HOUND all over again? How was the drug delivered? And if she was telling the truth that there was no drug, no trick, then what was it?_

He stomped his foot on the dark pavement of the alley and grunted, angry at himself for being so predictable. His curiosity was his Achilles heel, the way he was exploited. But it was also how he fed the fire burning in his brain and distracted his focus from the fire burning in his heart.

_I will burn the _heart_ from you._

He grimaced and followed the mysterious woman into the nondescript storage shed.

* * *

And emerged into an impossibility.

"Impossible," he said, turning around and around in a space that was clearly not a cramped storage shed. The room was dominated by a large central console, a control panel of some sort judging by the various displays, toggles, buttons and gears. The center of the console glowed a fascinating golden bronze that reminded him of the woman's eyes. The walls were patterned – giant hexagonal tiles, metallic, also bronze by the look. Cables fed from the top of the glowing console into the far reaches of the top of the space. Cavernous hallways fed out from the center and disappeared.

"Welcome to the TARDIS. _My_ TARDIS," the woman said as she approached the console. She set about studying the different displays with an almost intimate sense of familiarity and proprietorship.

"TARDIS?" he asked, still dumbstruck by what he was seeing.

She turned to him and gave him a brief smile. "Time And Relative Dimension In Space," she said. "Anagram."

He gave her one quick nod and resumed his study of the space. "And what is this? Some sort of time travel device?"

She nodded. "Time and space."

He shook his head. "An elaborate illusion?"

She smiled at him. "An exercise, Sherlock: Come here. Count your steps. Try to make them very uniform." He did as she bid, estimating that the console was twenty five feet from the door. She watched him as he approached. She was trying to hide her amusement; it was obvious in the twitching lips and deepened laugh lines around her eyes.

"I'm here," he said.

"Now go back to the door and count your steps again. Go outside; measure the dimensions of the shed you saw."

He did as she asked. Yes, the estimate was confirmed: twenty five feet from the console to the door. He stepped outside into the alley and quickly measured it again, confirming his earlier estimate: nine feet tall, three feet deep, and five feet wide. There was no logical way he could have taken a twenty-five foot stroll inside the shed. He investigated the back of the shed. It was solid. He passed a hand between it and the wall behind it. Solid. No trick.

He grinned. This was exactly the kind of thing he needed. He was startled to feel a spritely bounce in his step as he reentered the shed – _The TARDIS._

"Close the door firmly behind you," the woman – the Counsellor – said from the console. Sherlock did as she asked, then walked around the console, counting his steps the whole time. It was a large round room. He verified the reality of the hallways that fed away from the central space. He verified everything.

"It's bigger on the inside," he said stupidly. He wanted to kick himself.

"Where's the furthest from London you've ever been?" she asked, turning to him again. The light pouring from the console changed color and was now pulsing a soft silver-blue.

He only thought for a second. "Antarctica."

She rolled her eyes. "Specifically, where?"

"South Pole – the remote observatory. I was asked by the family of Rodney Marks to investigate his death."

"So you would recognize the place if we went there."

"I don't know. It's been a few years, things might have changed – features, geography –"

"No. If we went back to that place at that time."

Sherlock Holmes was flabbergasted. "You really believe you can do that, don't you?"

"I chose you for your intellect," she said, flipping a few gears on the console. "I expect you'll need evidence to believe me when I say this vessel can travel in space and time. I do not, however, appreciate your condescension."

"The only truth I can see at the moment is that you're clearly delusional."

"Am I? Are you not in a space that should not be possible?"

"It's a drug. I've encountered this kind of thing before."

"When would I have had a chance to slip you a drug?"

"The absinthe."

She frowned at him. "If you aren't interested in indulging your curiosity, please leave my TARDIS."

"You're offering to take me to the South Pole to revisit the investigation into the death of Rodney Marks."

"I am."

Sherlock grimaced. Why did she have to appeal to his curiosity? "Fine. Do you need me to tell you the date?"

"No," she said. It was starting to register on him; she was disappointed by him. Already. Was it something he said? Something he'd done? If only he had John around to tell him –

He shook his head, clearing the thought. Not useful or constructive, that.

"Right. To the Pole," he said, and he found himself surprised by his anticipation.


	3. The Counsellor

There was no sound, no sense of motion. Sherlock drew closer to the displays on the console and watched the strange symbols whirl and change, morphing. It all seemed like a bad, cheap special effect.

"So we're moving," he said.

"We're already done," the woman said.

"And we're at the South Pole."

"December fifteenth, two thousand."

Sherlock frowned. "Rodney Marks died on May eleventh."

"You didn't get here until December fifteenth."

"Don't you think it would be helpful to me to go back to the day he died?"

"We agreed I would bring you back to the South Pole _as you remembered it_. This trip isn't for your professional reference. This is to prove to you that the TARDIS is real, that I am what I claim."

"This exercise might prove your TARDIS, but it in no way proves you." Sherlock turned the collar of his coat up, tightened his scarf, and stormed out.

He cursed, forgetting himself. Cold didn't begin to describe the environment. Snow blew, swirling around him, and he couldn't doubt that he was where she claimed. He cursed again. How had he not remembered this cold? Even in the southern hemisphere's summer, this was insanely cold.

He turned back and thought he was going mad. He didn't see a storage shed. Instead he saw a small snowdrift of the same rough dimensions as the shed had been in the alley. It was tall enough to seem a little peculiar in this landscape, but unless you knew what you were looking for you might miss the signs of it entirely.

He rushed back to the snowdrift and saw what looked like a gap in the snow. He pulled at the edge of the gap and it opened easily. Through the gap he saw the interior of what the woman with the strange eyes called her TARDIS. He rushed inside, faster than what was decent, and fell to the floor, curling up into a fetal position to recover some warmth in the fastest way.

"Close the door firmly behind you," the woman said. He looked up at her. She was perched, semi-seated, on the console, an expression of amusement making her face lively, even beautiful.

"I-I-I'm cold!" Sherlock said. There was no disguising the surprise in his voice. He _was_ cold. He hadn't believed that he was in Antarctica, so he'd stormed out of the device she called TARDIS and found himself in a sub-zero wasteland of snowdrifts and gray skies. When he'd been to the South Pole in the year two thousand, he'd worn multiple layers of the best thermal insulation available at the time. This time he was wearing a simple black suit, a scarf, and a black wool coat. He hadn't even bothered to put on his leather gloves. Insufficient to the extreme.

The woman was suddenly crouching in front of him. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. He amused her. Oh, the thought of that sickened him. He hated being amusing. He counted on other people to be amusing.

"What is this thing?" he asked, tapping lightly on the floor.

"I told you. It's my TARDIS. Specifically, it's a TT Type Fifty-Two, Mark three. Not the most advanced model the day Gallifrey ended, but it was close."

"It was a s-s-snow drift," he said, his teeth chattering out the words.

"That's the chameleon circuit. My people had to travel incognito. Imagine what would happen if this technology fell into the wrong hands."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was defeated. There was no explaining how he could have been in a storage shed in an alley in central London one moment and then stumbling about in front of a snow drift at the South Pole the next. No other place he'd been had been that cold, not ever. A ruse was impractical, especially if it was designed simply to impress and recruit him.

"I b-b-believe you."

"About everything?" she asked.

"About this," he said, tapping the floor again.

"Still skeptical about _me_, though."

"I'm warming to the possibility you are what you claim."

She laughed. Her voice was husky when she laughed. "That was a very reluctant admission."

"I don't admit things freely."

"Are you satisfied we are where I said?" she asked, standing again and returning to the console.

"Satisfied enough. I don't want to go back out there."

"Very well." She pushed a couple of buttons. Her actions were harsh, jerky. She was apparently unsatisfied.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

"I'm taking you for coffee," she answered.

"Coffee?"

"You have to warm up." She turned to face him again. "Oh, I'm sorry. You're English. Would you prefer tea?"

"No."

Her eyebrows shot up. "That was a fast answer."

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about tea and people who prefer tea. "Coffee is fine."

"Good."

"And once I've warmed up?"

"We'll talk about what I need from you."

"This is beginning to feel like a hostage situation."

She laughed. "You are free to leave anytime you'd like. I'm retaining your services."

"In exchange for?"

"We'll discuss that over coffee."

"I don't usually get my work this way."

"You mean it isn't every day that a Time Lord lures you into her TARDIS and takes you on a quick trip to the South Pole to prove she's telling –"

"Say that again."

"Say what?"

"What you just said, exactly the way you said it."

"It isn't every day that a Time Lord lures you –"

"Time Lord."

"Yes."

"What's a Time Lord?"

"My people, my species. The people of Gallifrey, especially the ones who trained at the Academy in the Citadel."

"And you're looking for another one." He smiled. He felt warmer. He unfolded from the floor and scrutinized her carefully. "This former romantic attachment –" He stopped, a brilliant realization burning through his mind like a comet. "Oh. _Husband._ You mentioned a husband."

Then Sherlock Holmes started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asked, crossing her arms, an expression of burning rage setting her eyes on fire.

"I _turn down_ flown spouse cases," he said. "I don't think you're going to convince me to take this one."

"We'll see. And please, I'll fix it this time, but remember to always close the door firmly behind you."

* * *

Five minutes later they stepped out of a large recreational vehicle into the parking lot of a shopping center in the American Pacific Northwest. It was not a large shopping center, but it had ample parking. The sun was only now winking over the horizon and filtering through the dark green pines ringing the buildings.

"Does it just appear, then?" Sherlock asked.

The Counsellor looked back at him as he studied the TARDIS's new form. "Yes."

"And nobody notices?"

She didn't slow her stride to explain. "Humans don't notice much. Well, you do, but most of them don't. They accept what their environment presents them; so long as it isn't too strange or out of place, there's no reason to question it."

"It's ghastly."

"You would think so." She entered a coffee shop called _Brewed Awakenings_. She did not hold the door for him.

He turned a full circle, trying to get a handle on his location. He had, of course, already deduced that they were in the Pacific Northwest in America based on the native flora and the arrangement of the parking lot. _But where?_ He saw street signs: _12__th__ St. / 164__th__ Ave._ He frowned. He had never been here before. He pulled out his mobile.

_No service._

That was odd. He was paying a considerable amount of money to have an unrestricted international plan for those times he had to dash off to Switzerland or Australia to work on a case. There was absolutely no reason his phone shouldn't work in America, especially not in the tech-saturated Pacific Northwest. His best clue was the snow-capped mountain he saw rising in the east, silhouetted against the rising sun.

He entered the coffee shop and found her sitting on a deep camel-colored sofa in front of a fireplace. The fire was lit. Two coffees in paper cups sat in front of her.

"It's black," she said. "If you need creamers or sugars, they're over there." She pointed back to the station next to the cash registers.

"It's fine," he said. He'd grown mistrustful of sugar. He knew it wasn't responsible for his experience during the HOUND case, but he wasn't going to take any chances. "I won't be drinking the coffee."

"That's rude," she said, pulling a mobile phone from a pocket in her coat.

"It's rude to drug a guest."

She frowned at him. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"You're trying to make me say something revealing."

"I'm trying to make you admit that you're drugging me and making me see things that aren't real."

"Don't have coffee, then. Sit down in front of the fire. Warm yourself."

"I'm quite recovered, thank you." It was true, but he still felt the need to sit down. Too much was happening, too much he couldn't explain easily. "So where is this, then? The Pacific Northwest, obviously –"

"Obviously," she said, taking a sip from her own black coffee and smiling up at him.

"Is it Portland, then?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "Oh, very good."

"The mountain – Mount Hood, is it?"

"Yes. Not quite Portland, though. Mount Hood is a little bit too far south. This is Vancouver, Washington." She handed the mobile phone to him. "Here."

"What's this?"

"It should be fairly obvious."

"I have one."

"Yours won't work in most places."

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Because you've stepped out of your timeline. It is currently about a week before I met you in London. Mobile providers can't keep up with that."

"And this?" he asked, waking the device and looking down at the face of it.

"It draws its service from the TARDIS, relayed through local providers. It copies local registries and makes it possible to do what you wanted to do out in the parking lot – specifically, research where I've taken you."

"Any other features?"

"All the standard features: text, call, internet, GPS."

"And this comes with the job?"

"Along with this." She pulled a pair of thin silver chains out of her pocket and handed them over.

"What's this?"

She held her hands up, palms in. He saw again the simple silver chains connecting bracelets to index finger rings.

"What is it for?"

"Keys to the TARDIS," she said.

"Access _and_ ignition?"

She laughed brightly. "Access only. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"I don't know you. How would I know if you're an idiot?"

"You presume most people are idiots."

"All people."

"Why would I be different?"

"You're not _people_."

"So you believe me?"

"I'm willing to try."

"You're willing to take the case, then?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "I have a few questions."

She reached out to him, the silver on her hands glinting in the firelight.

He grimaced, remembering how she'd invaded his mind. "No. Let's do it the old-fashioned way."

"Go on."

"Your husband. How long ago did you last see him?"

She rolled her eyes upward, calculating. Something about the action made her seem vulnerable. "Seven hundred years."

Sherlock stood up. "Take me back to London."

"What?"

"This is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous?"

He turned back to her, his cheeks stinging red with his embarrassment. How had he let himself get sucked into this situation? He studied her face, gauging the clues and spitting them out at her: "You have gray in your hair, but not much of it. Furthermore your face isn't lined in any significant way – a smattering of laugh lines around your eyes and mouth, but hard to notice until you're smiling. That's either very sparse use of cosmetics or a young woman's skin. If I had to guess, I'd put your age between twenty-seven and thirty-two years."

"I am over a thousand years old."

"Ridiculous."

"You said you were willing to believe I was what I said I was. If that's true, then you should find it relatively easy to accept that an off-world visitor won't age the way humans age."

"Off-world visitor," Sherlock repeated with a cynical smirk. "I like that."

She reached her hand out to him again. "It's been, what, forty-five minutes since we met? And surely whatever little absinthe you had in your system has worn off. You haven't touched the coffee I bought you – rude, by the way."

"My apologies."

"Take my hand."

He stared at her hand, noting again how clean they were, how neatly the nails had been trimmed, and how the silver chains shimmered. "Take the chains off."

She smiled. "Very well." She slipped the chains from her fingers and wrists and slipped them in her pocket. She extended her hand again.

He took it. Immediately he felt his mind open again, flooded with images, with words:

_I was a child when I met him for the first time. I was nobility, born to what was left of our royal family – not a princess, mind, but a duchess, and that was close enough. He was low-born, a hybrid child, the result of his mother's indiscretion with a human man. Nobody expected much from him, least of all me. He told the oddest stories, thought the strangest things funny, and he had a peculiar laugh. To be honest, I didn't think much of him until the day he unexpectedly entered the Academy, where all promising Time Lords are sent to learn the ways of time and space travel._

Sherlock saw a little girl in his mind, a little girl for only a while over the span of centuries. She was lovely, golden hair shining like silk – and the image of a ginger-haired boy, awkward and odd, far in the background of her life.

_He was amazingly gifted, the half-human. He was a quick thinker, a fast learner, and he was _hungry_ for the knowledge. It wasn't long before even I had to acknowledge that he was a genius. On Gallifrey, "genius" is not a word we took lightly. It was important. It meant something there – and not always something good. Geniuses are often half mad, and the half-human boy was exhibiting all of those signs in spades._

Now his mind was filled with a sense of danger, of a red-haired mischievous boy who was thrilled by his aptitude to surprise and confuse. And then he saw the moment when the two youngsters first saw each other – really, really saw each other.

_I was drawn to him. I can't explain it. One moment I found him reprehensible, then next, beyond appealing. I was confused, but I couldn't help myself. And he was drawn to me, too. We had a whirlwind courtship, one I know my noble family would have hated if it hadn't been for the fact that he showed so much promise. We were bound to each other – like being married on Earth – the day we graduated from the Academy and were given our names._

Years blew by him at a dizzying pace – naturally, since it all happened over decades: The marriage, the settling in, the child born to them, and the execution of their professional duties. This woman was indeed a Counsellor; she could see into people's minds, hear their thoughts, ferret out the truth. She could soothe and calm people using her voice, her presence, and the sheer power of her mind. Meanwhile, her husband – such as he was – was busy carrying out interplanetary diplomatic missions, showing a great flair for the dramatic. He liked being gone. She didn't mind it either.

_We were so happy at first. But then – we weren't. We grew frustrated by each other's presence. I couldn't get a handle on his mood because it changed so often, and with a mind arranged like mine – I was always aggravated and tense with him. And he was always bored. He loved spending time with our granddaughter Suzian; he loved teaching her things, especially things about Earth and the human half of his heritage. I wasn't glad of it, but I didn't see the point, either._

He saw what looked like a slightly distorted image – an elderly man, clearly the aged representation of the red-haired brat he'd seen earlier, was creeping along a gallery of cylindrical vessels, surveying them, touching their surfaces. He was shopping. He seemed to have a brief conversation with himself, then smiled knowingly at one of the most unremarkable cylinders. He touched the door. It slid open. He stepped inside.

_He stole a TARDIS. He offered to take Suzian with him to see Earth, to learn history for herself. Of course she went. And you know what? I actually started to miss him, his madness, the unexpected things he'd say. I missed him. I tried to reach him. I even arranged for the Academy to send a novice named Romana after him to find out how he was doing. Romana returned and met with me, and admitted that she didn't know what had happened to Suzian. Romana was changed – not just physically. Knowing my husband had changed her. She was a little mad herself, not like the Time Lord she'd been when she left. I did see him twice, once as a disciplinary measure and then again during a diplomatic mission. We barely spoke two words to each other either time._

Sherlock gasped when the next set of images hit him. It was war. War was apparently a universal experience: explosions, screaming, crying, chaos, anger, violence. He could smell sulphur, feel radiation. He gasped again, unable to believe that he was actually breathing the oxygen-rich air of the coffee shop and not the toxic mess of this woman's home world.

_Then he came home the third time. Except that he wasn't home to stay. And, based on what he'd done, Gallifrey was no longer his home. He came to set Gallifrey on fire; he came to destroy everything, everyone. He rained fire down on us. Set us to burn._

_/I will burn the _heart_ out of you./_

Sherlock heard those last words in Moriarty's voice, and it hurt him, shocked him, scared him so badly he pulled his hand violently back from the Counsellor's grip. Yes, the Counsellor. There was no more doubt in him. She was what she said she was – an "off-world visitor" who wanted to retain his services to look for her genocidal spouse.

"I'm sorry about using that last bit," she said, and he could tell by the expression on her face that she sincerely was sorry. "It was one of your most painful memories, but I had to underscore what he'd done to me."

"You – you saw that in my head."

She nodded.

"You're very, very real."

"I thought that might be the last thing to convince you." She swirled the coffee at the bottom of her cup. "You know the worst part for me? He didn't even look for me or our son before he burned our world, scorched it. He just set us on fire and left, came running back here to soak in his human heritage."

"What will you do to him when you find him?"

Her lips worked. He watched her. _So many answers, but none she feels justified in giving me._

"That isn't your concern."

He shrugged. It probably would have bothered him if he'd still had a moral compass, but his moral compass was off shagging his new wife. "You're right."

"So you'll help?"

"Counsellor, I've tracked people across continents using nothing more than a napkin they left behind in a hotel trash can. I can tell you the nationality of a man by the shape of his skull. I know when people are lying and I know when they haven't been told the truth. I have never, ever been asked to track a man in a space ship."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Of course I'll help."


	4. Hometown

"I'm going to put this on you just this once, so please pay attention to how it's arranged," the Counsellor said. "Give me your right hand."

Sherlock didn't bother asking how she knew he was right-handed. He already knew that she could get into his mind, but he hoped she was able to deduce that from simple observation. He frowned and realized that he already thought her "talent" seemed very much like cheating.

He held his right hand out to her and she snapped the bracelet around his wrist. "This key is a bit less obvious than mine." She wrapped the silver strand around the bracelet instead of stringing it along the back of his hand. Then she pressed a transparent film along his palm and connected the film to a ring that she slipped onto his right index finger.

"Like handcuffs," he commented drily.

She met his eyes. Her eyes really were remarkable; right now, in the young sunrise filtering through the pines, the color seemed like Egyptian amber. "You're not a prisoner. Remember, at any time you can ask me to drop you off at home, at the exact time we met."

She turned away from him with no further ceremony and placed her hand on the door of what looked like a recreational vehicle. She jiggled the handle, and he saw the chain of her own bracelet shimmer slightly. Whatever device kept the TARDIS locked released, and the door opened. She turned back to him. "Oh, sorry. Perhaps I should let you try it." She closed the door and moved aside.

He stepped forward and decided to experiment; he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the handle. It felt like what it looked like: a simple RV metal door handle. It even gave slightly under his hand, but did not open. Then he decided to exert a little pressure. He pulled his hand back with a hiss. The handle had given him a small but very real electrical shock.

He turned to the Counsellor, his eyebrows drawn together with a question.

"You'll forget all about the shock in ten seconds," she said.

He shook his head. "Forget about what?"

She smiled at him. "Right." She tilted her head back at the door handle. "Want to give it another try?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He reached out with his right hand and put pressure on the handle, jiggling it lightly. He noticed that the chain wrapped around his bracelet shimmered slightly, then he heard a light click. The door opened. He opened the door and stepped into the increasingly familiar vessel from another world.

"Close the door firmly behind you," the Counsellor said as she swept past him. He did as he was told then followed her to the console.

"Where are we off to, then?" he asked.

She pushed a display in his direction. He saw elaborate figures, mostly circular and embellished, spinning lazily around each other. "These are time-space coordinates," she said. "I don't expect you to read them, let alone understand them, but I thought you should know what they were." She pulled the display back to her and started manipulating knobs. "I've been following traces of my husband's path all over the multiverse. Some leads in other universes fizzled out –"

"Other universes?" Sherlock asked. He came around to stand behind the display she was studying, trying to decipher the coordinates. He frowned. The discs whirled like clockwork cogs, but their meaning didn't become any more obvious.

"Parallel universes," she said impatiently. "I know you're aware of that – what do you call it? – oh, right. _Theory_. Physics is an advanced concept yet for you humans, but it's instinctive for Time Lords."

"You sound a bit preachy," he said. He resented the condescension in her tone and, with a start, wondered if this was what regular people felt like whenever he spoke with them.

"Do you want me to apologize for being who I am?" she asked.

Sherlock's mind raced ahead of him, calculating all of the conversational tangents proposed by her question and decided to sidestep all of them. "So you can't find him in any other universe and followed him here."

She smiled wryly. "Yes. The same universe I was born into. Unfortunately I've damaged one of my fuel coils with all of that hopping and I'm stuck on this planet for a while."

"So your promise of showing me the stars and the universe . . ."

She gave him a brief look that somehow managed to demonstrate a darkness he hadn't quite counted on. _Remember, Sherlock; she's a wronged spouse searching for her husband after seven hundred years. That kind of danger is exactly why you don't take these flown-spouse cases._ "The promise stands. Once the coil accepts the repairs I made, we'll be off. I am hoping, however, to draw on your talent. A few signs pointed to this planet and, more specifically, to your own hometown."

She moved quickly to the other side of the console and turned a different display towards him. The display was racing through several images of London: in front of Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, side streets and alleyways and closes. He studied the images, recognizing immediately every location and seeing the constant in every shot.

"A police box," he said.

"A what?" She came to stand beside him and watched the images scroll.

He turned to her, eager to share with her something she didn't know, happy finally to have an advantage over her. "Police box, apparently a style from . . .the nineteen sixties, if I'm not wrong. They're like miniature police stations. They contained equipment and supplies – documents, forms, the like – and they had a telephone on the outside behind a hinged panel that civilians could use to call the police. They've been largely decommissioned. It's odd to see so many of them. Is this modern-day London?"

"Mostly," she said. "Some of the photos go back to the year two thousand five. I don't have as much evidence from before then; some spotty stories –"

"Evidence? Where did these photos come from? And the stories?"

She smiled. "A conspiracy group called LINDA, mostly."

He pulled back sharply. "Linda?"

"Anagram. London Investigation 'N Detective Agency."

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Amateurs."

"Of course. Who else would post so much of their _evidence_ on public forums and ask for more information? Most of the stories seem to be nothing more than flights of fancy, but some of them . . .well, some of them sound very much like the Doctor."

He had questions on the tip of his tongue, but some of them disappeared when she said _Doctor_. He shook his head. He was working; he needed to focus. "And why is this such a hard thing? If some of the stories sound right, why wouldn't you simply watch for the next story?"

She tossed her head and pointed. "The forums dry up of serious leads in two thousand nine. The amateurs can't find a trace."

"What makes you think he'd stay in London?" he asked. "Why wouldn't he just move locations, go to Bosnia or Borneo or –"

"Boston?" she asked with an honestly companionable smile. It was nice to have that kind of disarmed interaction, especially after all the recent tension with the only friend he'd had. She shook her head again. "He's identifying himself as English, just as I've chosen to identify myself as American. The stories vary regarding his exact accent: Northern, Estuary, Scottish. But he's always English. And he travels with his TARDIS stuck in that form." Again she pointed at the police box. "I'd be surprised if it didn't play _God Save The Queen_ on its speakers every time he opened the door."

Sherlock smiled perfunctorily at her joke, but his mind was racing. "So why wouldn't it be as easy as going to London and examining all the police boxes until we found one that was smaller on the outside?"

She tilted her head at him. "Two problems with your suggestion: one, he doesn't stay in one place for long. He's aware, I think, of the vulnerability of having his TARDIS stuck in that form. While most humans can be unobservant twits, some of them _would_ start to notice a structure that looks brand new when most have been decommissioned. Curiosity is a problem. Second, we wouldn't be able to access his TARDIS with our keys, so how would we know for certain when we'd found him?"

"Brand new box, you said so yourself," he said. "We would find one that looked brand new and stake it out until he returned to it."

"I've tried that," she sighed. "Every time this group, LINDA, found one, it was gone by the time I got there. It's exhausting looking for a man whose mind is capable of staying one step ahead of you. Besides, there's something else."

"What's that?"

"His whole purpose for living seems to be the need to show off for humans. According to this group he is rarely without a human companion, sometimes more than one. He takes them on little adventures, puts them in dangerous situations just so he can rescue them and endear himself to them."

Sherlock frowned. "That sounds incredibly narcissistic."

That dark look passed over her face. "That would be the Doctor in spades."

He assessed her briefly, letting the silence write a prologue before he filled in the rest. "It might be said you've just done the same."

"The same what? Don't forget yourself, Sherlock. You're my employee. I'm not trying to impress you. I'm trying to use you. There's a difference."

"Not much of one. Narcissists use people to boost their egos, you know." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Unimportant. So you're taking me back to London."

"We're already here."

"How does this work? There's no sound, no sense of movement –"

"Advanced physics, beyond string theory. Tesseracts. Doesn't matter. We're not getting into that."

"And . . ._when_ are we?"

She frowned. "The same day we met. Same hour. About fifteen minutes after we left."

"Why wouldn't we just go back to a past sighting and follow him?"

"No," she said flatly.

"No? Just no?"

"That would cross my own timestream."

"Timestream?"

"You humans go forward in time. Only forward. Most living creatures _can_ only go forward in time from point A, birth, to point B, death. Time Lords get to play with time, but we cannot go back to a point in our own lives, our own timestreams. Understand?"

"Sort of."

"Good enough. Once we're married, Time Lords join their timestreams with their spouses. If I go backwards in his timestream, it would be like violating my own. It would undo my existence and compromise the time vortex that empowers the TARDIS." She caught his eye in a significant manner. "_Boom_ doesn't begin to cover it."

"So his time has moved forward and forced you to move forward with him."

"Yes."

"And does this little conspiracy group have any photos of your husband?"

She smiled. It seemed very bitter. "Oh, lots. Most blurry. A few good and clear. Some police-sketch kinds of renderings." She pulled up the information on the display and showed him.

"But these men are different," he said. He watched the faces flash before him. "I'm counting four different faces."

"Yes, well." She turned away from the console and headed for the door. "Another story for another time."

He studied the faces more closely. "There's no way this is makeup or masks or disguises. These are structurally different faces."

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's start our search."

"Using what?"

She flashed that wide and honest smile. "What you use best. Your mind."


	5. The Regeneration Riddle

"You want me to use my mind, but you don't give me enough information," Sherlock said, rushing after the Counsellor as she stepped out of the TARDIS. It only took him two seconds to figure out where they were: an Underground station, specifically, Piccadilly Circus. He looked behind him at the TARDIS and found that it had assumed the form of a broken Oyster card machine console, set just off the wall. He smiled. The Counsellor's vehicle was amazing, and she was right; it would be disastrous for that technology to fall into the wrong hands. Or any hands.

"I gave you all the information I have the patience to give you right now." She strode up the steps out of the Underground station into the heart of Piccadilly Circus.

"The faces!" Sherlock protested. "I can't begin to figure this out without more information about the faces. It's impossible. You say they're all the same man. Impossible."

"As impossible as my TARDIS?" she asked, turning on him. She studied his face carefully and sighed. He could feel some of her warm breath on his face and he felt suddenly calmer. He frowned. _Definitely cheating._

"I can't do my job this way."

She nodded. "Fine. Let's walk. Take my hand. I'll explain as we move."

He balked. "Wait –"

"I'll turn off the visual part of it until we're stopped," she said. "You will have to see it, though."

He took her outstretched hand in his and heard her voice in his head as they started walking. It was rather pleasant, like listening to an audiobook:

_It probably won't surprise you to know that Time Lord physiology is different from human physiology. Outwardly we're identical, but there are a few significant differences that made us doubt it was even possible to interbreed with humans. Of course, the Doctor changed our conclusions on that front._

_Even so, we _are_ different. Time Lords have two hearts. Our blood contains traces of the time vortex, which makes it possible for us to connect with our TARDISes and understand the deeper physics of the multiverse. And finally . . ._

The Counsellor had stopped moving and tugged sharply on Sherlock's hand. They were standing next to the fountain, and there were tourists all around them, arms circling each other, faces tilted up to cameras and mobile phones, smiling broadly as they captured the moment. She pulled a mobile out of a coat pocket and turned it on them.

_Close your eyes_, she said in his mind. He did.

Images then – he sensed he was back on her home world, and the war was raging around them. He could feel the ground tremble under the force of the explosions. He looked up in time to see a giant slab of some strange material – something between metal and rock – fall directly on to him (_her?_) and pin him. He felt blood, his (_her?_) blood, pouring out of his mouth and nose.

"God," he gasped. He felt like his lungs were collapsing and he was underwater and there wasn't enough air. "I'm . . .dying."

The images continued as Sherlock stood in Piccadilly Circus, next to the fountain, a smile frozen on his face, his eyes closed.

_We all do eventually_, she said in his mind. _But for Time Lords, the moment can take an eternity to come._

He felt himself rolling out from under the slab. The ground continued to tremble, but for the moment the disintegration of the space around him (_her_) was stabilized. It was safe enough.

His lungs were starving, but he was able to whisper, "Safe enough for what?"

A brilliant montage of images – family members, friends, people at the end of incredibly long lives suddenly erupting in blinding streams of orange energy. He felt his borrowed hand lift; he saw a few age spots on the back of that hand, neat fingernails, and those telltale silver strings – but more than that, he saw a strange orange luminescence glowing on those hands. He heard her voice then, not the strong, pure telepathic voice of their connection, but something earthier, more organic: _"Oh. At last."_

Then his awareness was swallowed by that orange light. The sensations rolling through his body were excruciating, both pleasant and painful, and that was just too much.

He pulled his hand away, and suddenly the toxic fumes, the thundering ground, and the overwhelming sense of pleasure and pain were gone. Not understanding what had just happened, he turned to the Counsellor and said the most illogical thing rolling around in his brain: "Did we just have sex?"

Her jaw dropped open and she searched his face for two seconds before she started laughing, loud, not-unpleasant peals of laughter ringing throughout the plaza. She stepped away from him, apparently helpless to do anything else, and doubled over, her hands on her knees as she let the laughter out.

"I think I asked a perfectly logical question."

She breathed deeply, still shaking with the remnants of her amusement. "I can read your mind, remember? I know better. That was the least logical thing you were thinking."

"Then why did I ask it?"

"Because you were panicked. You have a history of behaving illogically, irrationally, when you're frightened or panicked, don't you? You like to know what's coming and you like to think you can predict if you don't know." Her tone was very business-like now, and he found that unnerving. His heart was racing and he couldn't help himself – something about the switch between helpless mirth and calculating calm reminded him of –

_I will burn the _heart_ out of you._

Sherlock was shaking.

She took his hand again, and the full-body tremors torturing him slowly stilled. "Let's walk again," she said.

"I don't know if I can trust you," he confessed.

"Do you have to trust your clients?" she asked.

"If my client is transporting me around in a time-travelling spaceship, I think a certain level of trust should be established."

"Good point." She switched her monologue to her inner mind. _I know you won't know the significance of this oath, but I swear by my blood, by the pattern of Kasterborous, and by my secret name that I will return you home, to your place and time, when this is all over. You are safe with me, Sherlock Holmes._

He thought again that he could leave, just walk away from this – but then he wouldn't _know._

Her voice resumed. _What you saw was my one and only regeneration._ He saw very quick, very brief images of two faces, both female, both different: one had a silver-blonde mane of pin-straight hair, cool violet eyes, and a very aristocratic nose that gave her an undeniably haughty air. This was not the other face, the face he knew: tawny hair, full and wavy, warm bronze eyes, and a sensual face that made her seem pouty, not proud.

"Regeneration?" he asked.

She answered in her mental voice: _When a Time Lord is near-death, our bodies release copious amounts of a unique hormone called lindos. This prompts the third strand of our DNA to begin the change from our current form to our new form. Our biomechanical processes freeze and the whole of our bodies are transformed, even to the sound of our voices. You wouldn't recognize us. It's impossible._

"So you're saying that this husband of yours has gone through this at least four times, maybe more."

She nodded. "Possibly up to the limit, if the limit even exists after what he's done."

Sherlock shook his head. "Impossible."

"You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."

He smirked. "I've seen that film, you know."

"What film?" she asked, apparently sincere in her confusion.

He waved it away with his free hand. "Doesn't matter. The point is, if I can't even be sure what he looks like, how can I be sure we've found your Doctor?"

She smiled. "You'll know."

"But _how_?"

"I'll know."

"I know I'm starting to sound extraordinarily repetitive, but I can't do my job."

She leaned closer to him, and he was struck by the smell of her. It wasn't a shampoo or perfume. It wasn't a regular, organic odor. What he smelled was like fire, like electrical circuitry and volcanic ash.

He pulled away, but she closed the distance again, his hand firmly held in hers.

"I think you can."


	6. Companions

Sherlock woke in a room that he found intensely disorienting. It was Baker Street. _Why was it Baker Street?_ He'd moved out of Baker Street shortly after the wedding. It was difficult, but he couldn't afford the flat without a flatmate. Mrs. Hudson was forgiving with the rent, but it wasn't fair to her. Besides, the space was too quiet, and he couldn't bear the thought of trying to find another person who could fill John's place in his life.

But it _was_ his bedroom at his old flat. There was no denying it. The sun was filtering through the curtains in a way that indicated he'd slept deeply and not stirred all night. For a moment he allowed himself a fleeting, intense spark of hope: _It was all a dream. John is out there, in the flat, puttering about, making tea, and compiling a list of grievances he'll fling at me when I step out. He'll try to hide evidence of his worry that I've slept in so late. _

He closed his eyes. He trusted his memory over his hope. It wasn't a dream. No matter where he thought he was, he knew John was gone.

He frowned. _Then why am I here?_

_No, think. That's not the right question. There are several questions, but that isn't even in the top three. Here are the top three: Where am I? Was it _all_ a dream? And why am I still lying here when there are so many questions that simply getting out of bed will help answer?_

He rose, wrapped his dressing gown around himself, and headed out of his bedroom.

Yes, it still appeared to be Baker Street, but the illusion was faulty now. The sun was coming in the windows here, too, and that was simply impossible. The sun came in those windows in the afternoon and evening. He turned in a full circle. The illusion was impressive, nearly complete, but small faults could be found here and there.

He headed downstairs to the street and opened the door.

"You're up."

He was standing in the console room of the TARDIS. It hadn't been a dream. The Counsellor was bent over a display, studying coordinates and what appeared to be maps of Great Britain. What little trace of hope and happiness remaining in him was abruptly crushed. _All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

_Thank you, brother._

He turned back to look at the door out of which he'd come. It was the door to 221B Baker Street, faithfully recreated from his memory: bronze door numbers, bronze door knocker, a light wash of cloud-filtered day coloring the gloss black paint almost gray. The life he'd loved pretended to be behind that door, but it was illusion. She had created it for him.

"Why?" he asked. He hated the slightness, the hollowness of his voice.

"I thought it would help you rest. A well-rested employee does good work – that's my experience."

He was alarmed to feel a smile spreading on his face. It was a cold, detached analysis, devoid of sentiment or pity. It was something he might have done if he'd had a semi-magical spaceship.

She looked up from her instrumentation and made eye contact with him. "Was I right? Are you ready to get to work?"

"Is there any way I can get all of the images you showed me printed out?" he asked.

"Of course."

"I'll need that."

"All of the images?"

"Yes – everything you think is verifiable. I don't want the things that are obviously fiction; it's clutter."

She nodded, moving around the console to another display. She manipulated some levers and a neat stack of glossy photographs started to collect in a tray under the display.

"The companions you mentioned – I'll need information on them as well."

She looked up at him again. "They're unimportant."

He smiled. "That's a very certain conclusion you've drawn. How do you come to it?"

"He left his family behind on Gallifrey. He left with our granddaughter, then she . . .disappeared. I have no idea where she is. When he finally returned to Gallifrey, he set it on fire. How can you think –"

"But you told me he was very sentimental regarding his human nature. Certainly he would be much more careful with fragile humans."

It was apparent by her reaction that she had never considered that before. She smiled warmly at him. "Very good."

He didn't need her praise. "So how much verifiable information do you have on his companions?"

She snapped out of her admiration of him, shaking her head to clear it. "Give me five minutes."

"Meet me upstairs," he said, grabbing the stack of glossies and turning back to re-enter the phantom of Baker Street.

* * *

He arranged the photographs on the wall, just as he always had. He also pinned several maps next to the glossies: London, then England, then the whole of Great Britain, and he indicated locations on those maps with pushpins. Finally he tacked up the photos of the Doctor: a man with a severe, haunted expression in a leather jacket and denim jeans; an elderly man in an old-fashioned jacket and slacks; a much younger man in a pinstripe suit and tan trench coat; and finally a few sketches of a man with a strange shock of curly hair, a floppy hat, and a multicolored scarf that was ludicrous in its length. The faces were so different, but he knew that wasn't really the point. According to his client, they were all the same person.

_And that person has at least one weakness. If I can trace that weakness I can find the Doctor._

Two of the photos suddenly caught his attention. He leaned in and found a commonality: a young blonde woman was standing nearby. She was smiling in both photos, even though the man was different in each – the severe man in the leather jacket in one and the puckish kid with the trench coat in the other. Her smile was directed at these men, it was undeniable. And something about his stance in each photo indicated that he was very aware of her presence, protective, even.

_Love is a dangerous disadvantage._

The Counsellor was beside him. "What is it?"

"Who is this one?" he asked, and pointed at the blonde.

"That's Rose Tyler."

"And where is she now?"

She handed him a printout. It was an obituary.

He scanned it over. It was brief; two simple sentences that stated that Rose Tyler and her mother, Jacqueline Tyler, were missing and presumed dead. He frowned. "This? This is all the information we have?"

She nodded.

He shook his head, unsatisfied. "Who after?"

She handed him another glossy. This one showed a professional head shot of a striking dark-skinned woman in a lab coat. He recognized the look; he'd seen it on enough medical students at Bart's.

"That's Martha Jones," she said.

"And where is she?"

"She finished her medical degree, then sort of . . .drops off the map."

He frowned and turned to her. "Your amazing TARDIS can replicate the appearance of my previous residence, can travel through space and time, and can assume different shapes based on the environment, but it can't tell you where one human is?"

"Don't be snide. She is rumored to have taken up with a secret organization within the British government."

"Secret organization?"

"Either UNIT or Torchwood."

He sighed. "Conspiracy nutters."

"I thought you'd say that. I eliminated that lead because it seemed far-fetched."

"But if that's not the explanation, what is? She simply disappeared?"

"Like my granddaughter."

He was becoming more anxious. "Fine. Next?"

"Donna Noble," she said, holding up a surveillance-style photo of a red-headed woman. She was apparently cross with the puckish incarnation of the Doctor; she was frowning and yelling at him.

"And where is she?"

"She's married. She lives with her husband, her mother, and her grandfather in a rather nice part of London. Seems she won a respectable lottery several years ago."

"And she's still there."

"According to the most recent tax filings, yes."

Sherlock smiled. "I think that's where we should start."


	7. Wilfred

Now dressed in his simple black suit, Sherlock accompanied the Counsellor out of the TARDIS and into the Islington district. He'd never been a big fan of this part of the city. It was pedestrian, trite, and too cute for his tastes. The people here tried too hard to seem like they weren't trying.

He turned back to see what form the TARDIS had taken this time. They were in the middle of Islington Green, and the tourist kiosk – covered with flyers, pamphlets, stickers, and even a tube map – blended in perfectly. He surveyed the people around him. None of them had noticed. He shook his head and wondered if he would ever get used to it.

"This is the address," the Counsellor said, handing him a scrap of strange, high-quality paper with an address scrawled on it in a graceful, but utterly unusual, hand. His mind catalogued the details: _Vellum paper, very well-crafted. Gel pen, black ink, very dense. Numbers formed carefully; the letter R always capitalized._

He nodded. Because he wasn't very fond of this part of town, he wasn't as intimately familiar with it, but he knew it well enough to find his way. "This way," he said, heading in the direction of a neat row of homes on Devonia Road. It was a beauty of a day; the sun was riding high in the sky, the temperature was relatively mild, and people were taking full advantage, strolling the streets and chatting amiably. He thought it possible he despised every one of them.

A woman's voice – shrill, crude, and totally out of keeping with the progressive smugness of the environment – pealed like an alarm clock through the neighborhood: "Oi! Old man! Where ya poppin' off to now? It's barely two!"

A man with a beard so gray it seemed white was marching resolutely in their direction. He was obviously angry.

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, his voice the model of solicitude.

The man frowned at him and dismissed him, shouldering him aside – but then he stopped dead and turned on him. He looked him dead in the eye. "You're Sherlock Holmes, that lying git what jumped from St. Bart's and faked 'is death."

"Actually, I was cleared of all that."

The man didn't seem impressed with the claim of exoneration. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, but do you know where we can find Donna Noble?" He motioned back to where the Counsellor stood. "My associate and I need to ask her some questions."

"Donna? What business ya got with Donna?"

"So you know her?"

"O'course I know her! She's me own granddaughter!"

Sherlock took a half step back and leaned in to stage-whisper in the Counsellor's ear: "I hope you have your ship ready in the next half hour," he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

They weren't counting on the old man being so attentive. "Ship? What ship? You plannin' on takin' Donna somewhere?" He stopped, then leaned in, peering closely at the Counsellor. His eyes grew wide. "Or are you another one?"

"Another what?" she asked.

"Another one of _them_," he said, pointing up.

Sherlock was irritated to find himself glancing up. The Counsellor didn't shift her gaze. "You've – you've seen him."

The old man turned around, one full rotation. "Come with me. I need to have a pint before I can tell you anything."

"May I have your phone?"

The man shifted his attention back to Sherlock. "My what?"

"Your mobile. May I have it?"

"Why?"

"Because I would rather like a chat with you, maybe even a chance to have a seat in a proper pub after what I've been through the last couple days – but I don't want you contacting your granddaughter and getting her to escape before I have a chance to chat."

The man frowned. Sherlock held out his hand. "I could just go warn her now."

"But you know that would lead us right to her. I have a _lot_ of patience, sir."

Sherlock beckoned with his fingers, and with a heavy sigh the man handed over his mobile.

"Right then," Sherlock said, flashing his broadest and least authentic grin. "Where can we get a decent pint and some crisps?"

* * *

Before long Sherlock, the Counsellor, and the old man were seated in a cozy corner of The Nags Head, staring at their drinks and picking through a bowl of crisps. The Counsellor kept poking her cider, watching as the liquid clung to her fingertip.

The old man watched her. "So you are another one, right?"

She shifted her golden gaze to him and kept poking her cider.

He pointed at what she was doing. "Because that's the sort of thing he'd do."

"It has such a strange surface tension," she said. "Especially because it smells like a gaseous chemical process from my world."

Sherlock leaned close to her again. "Do you want to maybe be a little more discreet with your . . .identity, so I can properly conduct this inquiry?"

She shrugged, seeming like a petulant child. "He's seen him. I don't know why we're bothering with discretion or inquiries."

"Because –" Sherlock groaned. "You really don't know anything about this process, do you?"

She gave him a very unfriendly look and returned to poking her cider.

He turned his attention to the older gentleman.

"She's married, you know," the man said, taking a healthy swig from his pint. "My Donna. She's Donna Temple-Noble now."

"Is that why you don't want me to talk to her? Marriage unstable, afraid I'll inspire her to leave him?"

Sherlock was rewarded with a look that made it clear the man thought he was joking. "You don't know her. You can't make her do anything."

"Then what is it, Mister . . ."

"Wilfred Mott," he said, pointedly neglecting to offer a handshake. "And neither of you can talk to her about the Doctor."

"Can't we?"

"You had better not. She can't be allowed to remember any of the things she saw while she traveled with him."

"She doesn't remember?"

"No, and she can't."

The Counsellor tilted her head, her finger poised over the warming cider in front of her. "You've said that twice now: _can't._ Why _can't_?"

"Remembering will kill her."

Wilfred Mott launched into the story – how she met the Doctor, how long they traveled together, the things she told him they'd seen together. He was obviously, almost obnoxiously proud of her. At one point he called her the _Most Important Woman in All of Creation_ with an inescapable significance. He explained – the last adventure, what she'd done. How it had affected her. The promise the Doctor had extracted from him to ensure that nobody breached the deep vault in her mind that contained all the burning madness of the Time Lord.

"Y'see, my Donna – she's very special now." He gave them a bitter smile. "She's carrying around all this . . .stuff in her head, a ticking time bomb, too. And I have to chase away all them who'd have her remember. Not healthy."

Sherlock didn't know what to make of any of it. Some of the elements of the man's story sounded like crap telly – alien invasions, mind manipulation, power plays. But when he spoke of the energy of the Doctor's regeneration, what it was capable of, he found himself unable to doubt. He'd seen that regeneration in his own mind. He cast a surreptitious peripheral glance at the Counsellor. She was absorbed by the man's story.

"And you spent some time with him as well," she said. It wasn't a question. Sherlock had already worked that out, too, but he wondered if she was using her telepath cheat.

He nodded. "The Master."

The Counsellor blanched and knocked over her cider.

"Oi!" Wilfred Mott said, jumping away from the mess.

"What did you say?" she asked.

He frowned at her. "The Master."

Sherlock realized that neither of the other two were going to do anything about the rapidly spreading mess on the table, so he got up, grumbling, and sought out some flannels from the nearby bar. He kept an ear trained on the low conversation.

"You met the Master." Another not-question in that cool, feminine voice.

"You know the Master?"

"Of course. He's alive, then."

"Now, miss, I didn't say that."

Pause. "But you're not saying he's dead."

"No, I'm not. I don't know. I know he's gone away now and the Doctor said he won't be coming back here. That seemed to be good enough for him."

"You were . . .close to him."

"I'd like to think we were mates."

"You're saying it in the past tense."

"I don't think I'll be seeing him again."

Sherlock returned with several flannels and got started mopping up the table. He couldn't help but feel he'd become the Watson in this situation. The pain in his chest was surprisingly brief, but still sharp.

"Why not?" the Counsellor asked, carefully watching what Sherlock was doing in case it threatened her fine silk jacket.

"He's . . .gone. Not sure where." Wilfred Mott gestured out through the front door, but Sherlock knew he was actually indicating the whole of the cosmos beyond the pub. "Out roaming the stars, I expect."

The Counsellor sat back and sighed. She was frustrated. Sherlock wondered if she was cheating again, prying into the man's thoughts to determine his honesty. He was suddenly sure that it wasn't an option; being a telepath couldn't be a part-time thing. It was a part of her. It was like asking him to examine a crime scene with his eyes closed. _Of course_ she would use all her senses to inform her reality.

The old man's voice was hesitant when he next spoke. "He told me something during our time together," he said. "He said you lot, you have two hearts."

She nodded. Sherlock moved the wet flannels to the end of the table. John would have carried them back to the bar, but he wasn't John and he thought he should hear this.

"May I . . .?" The man was holding his hands out to her, directed at her hands.

Her left eyebrow rose. "May you what?"

He smiled. "That eyebrow thing – that's a lot like him." He watched her face for a moment. "Whatever he did to hurt you, I hope you know he is capable of a great deal of good. We all are, all of us damaged things."

She held her wrists out to him and let him fumble around, looking for her pulse. He found one. Then he found the other. Sherlock saw how she tolerated the contact, considered it a part of compensation to this man for his time and trouble.

"Whatever damage he's sustained he's done to himself," she finally said, gently extracting herself from the old man's grasp.

He nodded sadly. "He's never blamed anyone else." He cleared his throat and sat back in his seat. "So then, are you – will you leave Donna alone? Please? I don't want her destroyed."

"What happens to her when you're not around to protect her anymore?" Sherlock asked. He sensed there might be something . . .indelicate about the question, but he didn't care.

"I'm hoping nobody else has any business snooping," Wilfred Mott said. "If I'm lucky, you'll be the last to care."

Sherlock nodded. "You'd be very lucky indeed."

The Counsellor rose from where she sat and favored the old man with her strange bronze gaze. "I promise, I won't bother you or your granddaughter further. I would very much appreciate it if you would get in touch with me or my associate here, if you hear anything." She produced a contact card, very thick cardstock, with two phone numbers printed on the face. She smiled, and despite the obvious fact that it was pure artifice, the smile was disarming and beautiful. "Please."

Wilfred Mott pocketed the card and gave her a curt nod. He held out his own hand. "Me mobile now, if you don't mind." Sherlock handed it over. Then he and the Counsellor left the pub and headed back to the TARDIS, each silent to the clamor of their thoughts.


	8. The Captain

The file landed heavily on Jack's desk, and he blinked owlishly up at the woman standing over him. Gwen Cooper was wearing her small, knowing smile, and that intrigued him more than whatever was in that file.

"Got something for me?" he asked, moving his hand to the file.

"Telepath," she said, and that made his eyebrows shoot straight up.

"Genuine telepath?"

"The readings are remarkable," she said, flipping the file open and pulling the top page off the stack. She held it out to him. "I didn't know it could go so high."

Jack hadn't known it either. He frowned at the markers. "And we're sure this isn't faulty?"

"We retested on me and Rhys," she said. She gave her head a small shake for good measure. "Not faulty."

Jack stood up. "Surveillance?"

"What do you take me for, the new girl?" she asked. She pulled out a few glossies and presented them to him. "We have this and we have security footage as well." She pulled a USB key out of a pocket in the file.

Jack studied the glossies. The tall man in the long black coat – well. He had a certain something, didn't he? A sense of style, even if it was a bit dreary and moody. His face was also a very brooding, serious, hyper-intelligent face. He looked like something straight out of one of Shakespeare's more tragic scenes.

_I bet he even has a skull he likes to have chats with from time to time._

Yes, the man was intriguing, but it wasn't the man Jack was paying the most attention to.

"Her, right?" he asked, pointing to the woman standing next to Mr. Moody. She was dressed in a fine, camel-colored silk suit and brown calfskin boots with a practical one-inch heel. Over her suit she wore a clean, efficient brown leather jacket that matched her boots effortlessly. She carried no handbag.

She nodded.

"Telepath."

Gwen smiled. "There's more."

"More than the highest-scoring telepath we've ever seen?"

She wiggled the USB key at him. "Watch."

He plugged the stick into his computer and waited for the video to load. He watched as the man and woman approached a very familiar older man. "Wilfred Mott," he said softly. He had a great deal of respect for the veteran, mainly because he was doing such a remarkable job of protecting his granddaughter from the conspiracy nuts. The three of them had a brief and lively confrontation on the street, then disappeared into a nearby pub. They remained there for about half an hour, according to the timestamp on the video feed. Mr. Moody and Ms. Posh then left the pub together and headed out to Islington Green.

"So?" he asked.

"Watch," Gwen said again, pointing at the tourist kiosk. The man and woman had a brief discussion next to the kiosk. Then – the woman reached out and took hold of a loop on the kiosk. Something on her wrist – or, maybe, the back of her hand – glimmered. Then a door appeared on the kiosk.

Jack's breath caught in his throat. "No."

Gwen smiled in response, but said nothing.

He watched, all of his senses focused on the video playing on his monitor. The woman opened the door and stepped inside. The man followed her and pulled the door closed behind him. Then the kiosk shimmered and vanished.

"Oh my God." Jack was grinning. "How long ago?"

"Thirty minutes."

He popped out of his chair and rushed to Gwen, catching her up in an elated embrace. "It's Christmas, sweetheart. Maybe it's May, but it's freakin' Christmas." He cut his face back to the display. "Thank you for talking me into this trip to London."

"But they're gone," she said, a flash of annoyance with him burning itself out on her face. "There's no telling where they're off to."

"Time vortex energy signatures?" he asked, pulling on his trench coat.

"Yes."

"Then it's a TARDIS," he said.

"_A_ TARDIS? Not _the _TARDIS?"

He shook his head. "This isn't the Doctor. The Doctor's TARDIS is stuck – it looks like a police box, and _only_ a police box. I think he likes it that way. No, this is something else."

"You don't mean – another Time Lord?" she asked, her Welsh accent turning the question into a musical trill, a snatch of lyrical poetry.

"I think I mean that exactly," he said, and tipped her a roguish wink.

"You didn't answer my concern over the fact that they're _gone_," she said as he headed for the office door.

"They'll be back." He grinned and pushed the photo of Mr. Moody at her. "Do you recognize that face?"

She frowned. "No."

"That's the infamous Sherlock Holmes," he said, collecting the file and taking her hand.

"Name's a bit familiar."

"As it should be. He was a sensation for a while: Scotland Yard insisted on his help for a variety of unsolved cases, and he solved every one. Then he was set up on some sort of fraud charge and jumped off a hospital roof."

"Oh, right," she said, hurrying to keep up with him as he slammed through the doors leading out into the gorgeous May sunshine. "That was a few years back, yeh?"

He turned to her as they got to the street. "_Yeh_," he said, imitating her accent flawlessly then switching back to his own American drawl. "But about six months ago he returned and was fully exonerated. I'd suspected from the beginning the whole thing was a ruse, but because it's not our area, I didn't bother mentioning it."

"And now?"

Jack grinned. Mr. Moody Holmes – stylish, enigmatic, and just a little bit sexy – had earned himself some surveillance. "He's just stepped into our area."

"I still don't see how we're going to find him."

"Don't you understand?" he asked, a twinge of disappointment wracking through him. "London. She came to London. She has a ridiculously gifted detective with her, one who knows London better than just about anyone."

"And what does that prove?" she asked.

"They're looking for him. For the Doctor."

"And?"

"I bet she's right. She'll pick up his trail here, in London."

"Where are we going?" she protested.

"We're going to pay a visit to Martha and Mickey."

* * *

"Are you going to tell me about the Master?" Sherlock asked. He was standing in front of the wall again. Wilfred Mott's face had joined the rest.

"Nothing to tell," she said, sitting in his chair.

He glanced at her, reading her body language instantly: _Crossed legs, crossed arms, masked face, shifty eyes. Defensive. Lying._ "We both know that's not true."

"I don't see how this information would be relevant to your case."

"All information is important," he said. "I am usually able to discover the lies for myself, based on the available evidence and the information I've stored in my head. I'm a little frustrated by this case, because we're chasing a ghost and you're keeping secrets."

"It's not a secret."

He frowned at her. "Secret, noun: Something that is kept or meant to be kept unknown or unseen by others. You have no intention of telling me everything. You're keeping things back." He turned away from her again. "Secret."

"I don't have the time or patience to tell you everything," she said, that same petulance heavy in her voice. "I'll reveal things to you as they become relevant."

"How was regeneration _relevant_ to this case?"

"You asked me about his face. I had to show you enough to prove to you that it was real."

He nodded. "Now I have a new name: the Master. It's become relevant."

"How?"

"Our best lead led to our first witness, who mentioned him, and you had a very remarkable reaction. That's how relevance works."

She held her defensive manner a moment longer, then collapsed, pressing her face into her hands. "This is becoming too intimate."

"That's why I don't like to take flown-spouse cases."

"I don't want to have to live through all of my memories," she said. Her hands were shaking – a small tremble, but he picked up on it. "I'm an old Time Lord."

"I don't need them all. Right now I need information on the Master. Is he a . . .master? Does he have authority over anyone? How is he connected to the Doctor?"

His questions gave her a jumping off point. She leaned back, away from her hands, and sighed. "Yes. I can tell you that way."

And she did, telling of their childhood, how he was the Doctor's best friend, how they fed off each other's madness, and how his jealousy nearly incapacitated the Doctor's courtship of her.

"At first I felt like a third wheel," she said wearily. "He made it clear he didn't want me to be romantically involved with his best friend. His attachment seemed a bit too . . .fervent. I guess it brought out a competitive spirit in me. I became determined to have him."

Sherlock was lost suddenly, lost in his thoughts:

_John. Mary. I tried so hard to keep them apart, to keep him from falling in love. Tried too hard. She responded. She wanted him more every day. And I – I lost him. She won._

He turned back to her and was distressed to find she was staring hard at him.

"Are you reading my mind, Counsellor?"

She smiled wolfishly at him. "You understand better than I thought. I really don't have to work very hard to explain, do I?"

"You have an unfair advantage over me," he said, backing away from her, from the wall, from the conversation. "You can read my mind any time you'd like. All I have to go on is what you show the world, and that is precious little."

"I have spent hundreds of years burying my feelings, the evidence of what my feelings have done to me. It's shown that I've gotten this far. Disconnected, I can plan, function, execute. I have to be cold, Sherlock, or I will never avenge myself. I'll never be able to face myself again."

He thought again about John. It was torture, but he had to do it. He sagged to the sofa and stepped into his mind palace.

_John. Doctor John Watson. Captain John Watson. A good man, the best of men, and for a while, my friend. He focused me, kept my scattered energies from running amok. I was more brilliant with him than I've been with anyone, solved more cases, inspired. But in the end, he deserved – deserved –_

_This Doctor – a good man? Wilfred Mott seemed to think so. Alone. Loved by this woman, but now alone, unsatisfied, roaming the universe. Why? Drawn over and over to the human race. What does he deserve – revenge? If John had to leave Mary because he was unsatisfied, would he deserve her vengeance?_

"Sherlock!"

He opened his eyes to find her looming over him, kneeling on the coffee table, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him intensely.

"I'm – I'm fine," he said, his voice weak and almost unsubstantial.

"Where did you go just now?" she asked. She was manic; her eyes were dilated, focused on him. He stared at her, eyes wide, fascinated. He could sense now her essential difference from him, the strangeness of her. His nearly preternatural senses opened to her and drank in the experience of her, then spat out a finding that defied logic:

_There are too many heartbeats in this room._

"Where, damn you!" she cried. He could tell she wanted to strike him, but she did not. Her hands were rolled into tight fists at her sides, though, and the least provocation could lead to damage of an unknown severity.

"I was – away. Mind palace," he said. He grabbed her by the arms and slid his hands down to hers. He took her wrists in his hands. "I –"

_Two heartbeats, distinct, one slightly faster than the other._

"Mind palace?" She scanned his eyes with hers, and he understood suddenly that she was raiding him, trying to divine his meaning, pick it apart, comprehend it. Realization dawned. "You have a shield."

He stood and spun away from her, this weird alien client of his. "A what?"

"A way to block my telepathy." She sounded wondering. "I haven't encountered such a completely shielded mind in hundreds of years. It's amazing." Her voice fell to a hush. "You're amazing."

Sherlock smiled and turned back to face her. _Ahh, praise, Counsellor,_ he thought at her, strong and sure, knowing she'd get the message. _You really do know how to get under someone's skin, don't you?_

She smiled back. Like it or not, Sherlock had just made a new friend.


	9. Mycroft and Martha

The device the Counsellor had given him buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock pulled it free and looked down at the face. New text. He opened it and read it.

_Where the bloody hell are you, brother dear? –MH_

Sherlock smiled. _Bloody hell, is it? Worried?_

He dialed Mycroft's number, still not sure how this device could possibly work. Mycroft answered before Sherlock was sure the call had registered on the mobile networks.

"Well? Where are you?" his brother asked, his voice disassembled somehow, certainly not full of that pompous calm he liked to project.

"I'm . . .unavailable," he said. He tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket and straightened his neck. He knew how posture affected voice, and he wanted to sound as guileless as he could.

"That's nowhere near good enough."

"Why should you care?" Sherlock was unhappy to hear the passion in his voice. _Care, nobody cares, nobody should; it's a lark, a hindrance, a paralytic. Why do I expect it from him, of all people?_

"Because you're starting to draw attention to yourself again!"

"And that's a surprise to you?"

"It's not a good thing – not when the parties are as . . ._specialized_ as these."

That got Sherlock's attention. "What parties?"

"Tell me where you are. I'll send a car round, pick you up. We should have this conversation in a secure place, not on a mobile network."

The Counsellor had come in to the phantom of Baker Street, making her presence known by a soft swish of fabric and a gentle footstep on the kitchen floor. She pulled down two cups and set the kettle. They'd been working like this for almost a week now – meeting in the phantom structure that smelled and acted like his former residence, talking, combing through conspiracy websites and coming up with theories over why the Doctor simply disappeared after two thousand nine. No evidence that he'd reconnected with any of his old companions. No companions present at the split. No new companions – not any on the available evidence. No reliable eyewitnesses. And certainly no loud, splashy appearances, like the rumored appearance of the Doctor during the two thousand twelve Olympic games. Yes, he'd been there, carrying the Olympic torch. But, after quite a bit of argument and review of the available footage, they'd decided that it was a time-jump. The definitive proof was the presence of Rose Tyler during that time frame when she hadn't been supposed to be alive.

"Can't do that," Sherlock said, responding at last to his brother. _His respiration's picked up. He sincerely is concerned, perhaps even a little panicky. I'd love to know who these _parties_ are, but . . ._

He looked over his shoulder at the Counsellor. She wasn't wearing her efficient, high-end pantsuit. She was wearing something like a housedress, the material like cotton and spun as fine as a spider's web. she was a reassuring presence. He wasn't alone.

"What do you mean, _can't_?"

"I'm on a case."

"What case? I've inquired with Lestrade –"

"Private client."

"What client?"

"Mycroft, I'm sure it's making you ridiculously unhappy that you don't know. You should know by now, shouldn't you? Yes, you should, you with your secret agents and wiretaps. But you can't trace my phone, you can't determine where I am, and you don't know who I'm working for. Plus you're receiving some pressure from _parties_ you can't name on the phone." Sherlock grinned. "Oh, this _is_ fun. Thank you, brother dear. I haven't had this kind of fun in a while."

Sherlock ended the call.

"Should I ask who that was?" She handed him a cup of tea. It was minty and a little sweet. It was not a cup of Watson's tea. He liked that.

"You know already. You're just making conversation."

"True." She smiled at him. "So where did we leave off?"

* * *

Martha and Mickey Smith lived in an _undisclosed location_ – in this case, that was code for the rolling hills surrounding York. As retirements went, Captain Jack Harkness supposed they could have done a lot worse than the thatched-roof cottage surrounded by five private acres, complete with a shepherd dog and an apparently very productive garden.

He was greeted by the giggle and squeal of a child running to the door. "Mommy! Visitor!"

Jack was seized and pulled roughly into the house. He was then thrown against the wall and, when next he was able to focus on anything, he found that he was staring directly into Mickey Smith's furious eyes.

"Talk," Mickey said.

Jack frowned – then laughed.

Mickey laughed too, a full-throated expression of hilarity that rang through the house.

"Oi! Do you mean to break all our vases?"

Martha Jones-Smith was standing at the entrance to what had to have been their kitchen. She was flashing him that gorgeous, gorgeous smile, and Jack felt his spine liquefy a little.

"Sorry, love, I didn't expect to be face to face with this wanker." Mickey lowered Jack to the ground and rushed to pick up what was left of a smashed porcelain vase, then right the side table on which the vase had been perched.

Jack pulled Martha into a hug. "How are you, beautiful?"

He could feel her smile against his cheek. "Good – but I'm worried about your visit. Should I be, or are you in country and visiting friends?"

He sat down on their sofa and shrugged. "I wish I could say I had that kind of altruistic reason to be here, but no – there's another reason."

"We're retired," Mickey called from the doorway.

"We tired," the girl-child repeated as she spun in circles in front of Jack.

"Then maybe it's nap time," Martha said. Her bright, gorgeous smile had fallen away from her face and she now looked troubled.

"No!" the girl said, squirming – but there wasn't much conviction. She _had_ been tired, and Jack's visit had pushed her adrenaline-burn too far. Her mother scooped her up and carried her quickly to a bedroom.

"What's this, then?" Mickey asked. He sat in an overstuffed recliner and leaned forward. His voice still wore the Estuary accent, but it had softened a bit, mellowed.

_Retirement has been good to you_, Jack thought sadly. _I'm so sorry._

"I think . . .I think it's about the Doctor."

Mickey cocked his head at him. "You _think_?"

"I can't prove it yet, but we've found a telepath – an _amazing_ telepath. Never seen anything like it before."

"And why do you think it has to do with the Doctor?"

"Because of the telepath's preferred method of transportation." Jack produced the file that Gwen had assembled and hoped she was having luck with planting and gauging the neural activity receptors all over London. He'd need those readings as soon as he got back. He turned several glossies around to show Mickey.

Martha joined her husband at the reclining chair and perched on the arm. He passed her several of the glossies. She stared at them.

"It's not a police box," she said.

Her husband looked up at her. "Police box?" He stared at the tourist kiosk. "You think this is the TARDIS?"

"I think – no, I'm _sure_ – it's _a_ TARDIS."

Martha popped off the chair and came to sit next to Jack. She pawed through the file. "_A_ TARDIS. Not _the _TARDIS. Not the Doctor's TARDIS."

"Right."

"So – there's another one. Not the Doctor, but another one."

Jack smiled at her. "Yes." He offered her another glossy, this one revealing a tawny-haired woman with tanned skin and a fierce bronze gaze.

Martha bit her lip. "So, telepath, with something that has time vortex signatures." She shrugged. "Why are you here?"

"Because she visited Wilfred Mott, and I have a feeling it won't be long before she's looking for you."

Mickey looked between them. "So she's looking for him."

Jack put down another photo. "Recognize him?"

They both nodded. Mickey grinned. "I used to read the blog, back in the day."

"Blog?" Jack asked.

"Yeah. This man's flatmate, he used to keep a blog. Wrote down about their most interesting, what, projects?"

"Cases," Martha said.

"Yeah, that's right. He'd write up their cases. It got real popular. I think I heard the Queen was reading it. Then it stopped after he faked his death."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Do you see? She's not just _looking for him_. She's _hunting for him._ She's got Sherlock Holmes with her."

"So what?" Martha asked, standing abruptly and moving away. "How is this our problem?"

Jack stood up. "I didn't come all the way out here to gossip. They're going to eventually end up on your doorstep."

"And you want me to let you know when they get here."

He grinned at her. "Too obvious. I want you to come back to London."

Martha shook her head. "No. We're retired."

"I know that, but –"

"We _earned_ it," she said, her voice full of venom. "We bled for it."

"It has to do with the Doctor, Martha," Mickey said gently, taking her hand. She shot him a poisonous look of betrayal and frowned. "We owe him."

"I don't owe him anything," she said, but the force had bled from her voice.

"We owe him . . ._this_." He lifted her hand to his lips.

She met his eyes again, and Jack saw pain. It was familiar. All of the Doctor's companions eventually wore the same expression. He knew that pain. He always wondered if that pain had come from knowing the Doctor or if it had come directly from the Time Lord, like a flu he'd passed on to them.

She turned to Jack with all the fury of a mother in her eyes. "My daughter. Safeguarded. All the time."

"Of course."

"And as soon as we're done . . ." Her voice trailed off, then she sighed. "We can never come back here, can we?"

"I don't see why not," Jack said.

"Bring us back here if you can," she said. "If there will be no consequences."

They stared at each other and knew that, living arrangements aside, when it came to the Doctor there were _always _consequences.


	10. The Danger is Real

"Sherlock."

He couldn't hear. He was beyond hearing. He was in deep, twisting through memories, old case files, facts and trivia and old, discarded hypotheses.

Sherlock Holmes was frustrated. This case, this eccentric, nonsensical case of "off-world visitors" and mysterious interested parties and changing faces and missing witnesses was dragging on too long with no progress at all. He needed something. He wasn't bored, but he wasn't shining the way he used to. He didn't think having his former blogger with him would have made any difference. There were too many variables, too many things scattered to the winds, and even now, too many secrets. He knew that his client would share with him, but only through her telepathic connection – and while being a part of that connection sometimes felt like a very delirious LSD-driven hallucination, the images he saw were often heartbreaking, terrifying, and confusing by turns. He didn't like it, not when he was still not perfectly certain he could trust her.

"Sherlock."

He twitched. He wasn't ready to leave his calculations; he thought it very likely that he was close to something, that the key to unlocking the Doctor's whereabouts had to be somewhere in his subconscious.

_I'm not making any headway today, though. I should give it a little rest._

He surfaced and found the Counsellor staring at him with a cold bronze gaze.

"What is it?" he asked impatiently and sat up from the couch in the phantom Baker Street.

"Your phone has been ringing."

"It's not important!" he said.

"How can you know that when you refuse to answer it?"

"Because it's just Mycroft. It's always just Mycroft. I have no friends, and my brother is trying to get me to say something to betray myself. That's all it is. For the past two weeks, that's all it ever is."

She frowned at him. "Is that self-pity?"

He recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "Is it what?"

"Your rhetorical device – _that's all it ever is_ – that sounds like a leading sympathy-hunting remark."

Sherlock grimaced, then sneered. "Counsellor. I'm seeing it now. Do you always try to impress people with psychological voodoo, or is that a tool you reserve for when you're frustrated?"

"Do you always deflect the truth by being snide?"

"Get out of my head. It's rude."

"I can't help it."

"I can." Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to reconstruct the parapets to close off his mind – but cool, well-kept fingers slid into his.

_Don't go,_ she said, her strong mental voice raw and desperate.

He yanked his hand away and opened his eyes. She seemed as cool and collected as ever. She was staring intently into his eyes, and slowly her left eyebrow lifted, higher and higher until he became curious if it would dissolve into her hairline. She smiled at him briefly, then got up from where she'd been perched.

"What do you mean, _don't go_?" he asked, standing up himself.

"Hm?" She was heading out of his phantom Baker Street.

"What did you mean?" He pulled on his coat and followed. He didn't even cast a wistful glance behind him.

* * *

"He's not answering his mobile," Mycroft said softly. He was at the Diogenes Club. Today he had a guest with him – a very noteworthy guest. _After all, it's not every day I get to treat an alleged immortal to whiskey._

Jack Harkness grunted. The first few times Mycroft had informed him that there was no response from Sherlock, he'd flashed his charming little grin and indicated he was prepared to wait. That artifice was falling away from him now, and the older man could see that he was as impatient and potentially rude as any other human being. "Why not?"

"He's cross with me, Captain Harkness. My brother is not known to be a . . .forgiving person."

Jack lifted an eyebrow. "Does it have anything to do with telling a supervillain all of your family's secrets?"

"That might have contributed, yes."

The American stood and scowled. "You have to keep trying to reach him."

Mycroft stood with him. "I will. But do you really think –"

"Yes. She'll come. They both will, I think."

"And do your friends enjoy being the honeypot?"

Jack frowned. "I don't have any sympathy for you, Mr. Holmes, but you must know this – they're professionals. They have their allegiances. We all do. I have my reasons to wish I'd never met the Doctor, but in the end having known him makes me who I am today. I owe him my life, and I will do whatever it takes to protect him."

Mycroft looked down his nose at Jack Harkness – which was a mean feat. Jack was taller, after all. "Remember our deal. My brother is to be unharmed."

"So that he can suffer another day. Of course."

"It's the curse of all mad geniuses. I don't want his life to end before he finds another reason, another meaning to it all."

"_Another_?" Jack asked, then grinned. He thought he knew. Actually, Mycroft was almost _sure_ Jack Harkness understood. "Good day," he said, snapping a neat little military form – ankles tapped, hands stiff at his sides, and head bent slightly – before turning on his heel and leaving the club.

* * *

"What?"

"Ah, brother dear, it seems you've finally remembered your manners."

"Mycroft, I do _not_ have time for your games. What do you want?"

"I have some information I think you want."

"Oh, this should be interesting. You don't know where I am, you don' t know who I'm working for, and you don't know what I'm looking for, but you have information –"

"I've found Martha Jones."

"I'm listening."

"Good. She's back in London with her husband, back from a stay in Bath."

"A stay in Bath? What was she doing in Bath? Holidays?"

"Don't play coy with me. Three years is a long time to be away on holiday."

"Then enlighten me."

"She has a medical degree. Work it out."

"Not good enough, Mycroft."

"Either make a deduction or be satisfied with my silence. Her project has been classified."

"Very well. So she's back in London. Where can I find her?"

"That's already been arranged. I reached out to her as soon as she reappeared on my radar."

"What do you know of what I'm doing?"

"Now you're starting to ask the right questions, I think. But it's too late for that. Rest assured that I do know what you're up to. Perhaps I can't physically locate you, but I feel the need to raise at least a perfunctory objection to your current . . .case."

"You're objecting."

"Yes."

"Despite the fact that you know it's useless to object."

"Yes."

"Well. You must be very concerned."

"I am."

"Is it because of the interested _parties_?"

"Yes."

"Who are they, Mycroft?"

"Classified."

"Knowing might make it possible for me to understand your concern."

"If you knew, would it stop you on your current course?"

"Probably not."

"Then it's safer for now for you to not know. What's so funny?"

"Oh, you, brother dear. Is it so impossible to believe that I'm finally enjoying my work again?"

"Frankly, yes."

"Good. Believe that I'm still torturing myself and desecrating the transport."

"Sherlock, I'm asking you to stop this foolishness before you get hurt."

"And you still don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"Get hurt? Do you think that's even possible anymore? I've _been_ hurt."

"Physically this time."

"Oh? And these _parties_ you're working with – don't bother denying it, Mycroft, I know you're willing to bargain when it comes to my safety, and we both know your success rate when you put your oar in – are these _parties_ willing to physically hurt me?"

"The creature you're hunting – a lot of people have a vested interest in protecting him. Does your client intend him harm?"

"That's _classified_."

"Bollocks!"

"Language!"

"Don't tell me to mind my language. You're not our mother. Now listen to me, you're dealing with forces that are far beyond your comprehension. I've never been involved with these people, but since you've taken up with your client I've had numerous conversations, both by phone and in person. The danger is _real_, Sherlock. Don't be a fool."

"The danger is real. Don't you think that's why I'm still involved?"

"Sherlock – bloody hell, you've hung up!"

* * *

Sherlock shoved the phone back in his pocket, took a deep breath, then pulled it out again. As the Counsellor watched, he typed

_Now where and when should I meet with Martha Jones? –SH_

Not fifteen seconds later, he had his reply:

_Since you insist on this foolishness, meet her tomorrow, 7pm, Tower of London tour office. Bring your client. –MH_

Sherlock turned the phone to her so she could see what was arranged. She frowned. "I have to go?"

He frowned in response. "Why wouldn't you want to?"

"If it ends up being anything like Wilfred Mott, I'll be bored five minutes in."

"I think you'll be fine," he said, then winked. "Now if you don't mind, I think I've earned the evening off." He pulled his coat back on and headed for the TARDIS door.

"Where are you going?" she asked after him.

"Out. See you in a few hours."


	11. Unproductive and Destructive

He knew coming this way was a mistake as soon as he rounded the corner and saw the Speedy's awning.

A lorry was parked out front, and two men – one tall, well-muscled and Slavic, and the other smaller, wiry and lean, like a whippet – were moving a sofa out of the lorry and carefully maneuvering it up the stairs.

Sherlock frowned. This was undeniably the _real_ 221B Baker Street. It had apparently been re-let. Mrs. Hudson had bills to pay, of course. Life moved forward; things changed.

_Lives end. Hearts are broken._

He wondered what changes had been made inside. Was the happy face gone? Had the smell of decomposition been somehow sandblasted from the kitchen floor? Was the ghost of John Watson still typing away at his laptop, even as the new tenants moved in?

His frown deepened. Standing here, watching this – it was ridiculous. Sentimental rubbish. He should go.

He couldn't move. He felt like something in his mind was broken. That was the worst of all – not being able to trust his processing. It was the most important thing he had, and it had so very rarely failed him. He couldn't allow that to happen again. He had to stop this. He had a way to stop it. He had a case – and not just any case, but a case that should, by all logical explanations, be impossible. Those were the only cases he cared about, the only ones that intrigued him.

But he'd taken _a night off_ to stand here and stare and scowl and – what? Pity himself? This was the sort of thing wasteful teenage girls did, not Sherlock Holmes.

_Gaze well on the results of caring too much, Sherlock_, he told himself. _Caring is unproductive at best and destructive at worst. You don't want to be either. You need to stay occupied and always, always stay a step ahead of this idle idiocy._

Even so, he waited until the two men had gained the top of the stairs before he walked briskly to the door, placed his hands over the brass numbers, and said his goodbye to the life he'd lived before.

The Counsellor sat in the solarium of her private quarters aboard the TARDIS, two hands over her belly. She winced. The pain was getting worse; before long, she wouldn't be able to hide it from Sherlock. She lifted her hands and noticed that her fingernails had taken on a very light orange luminescence.

_A little longer_, she thought to herself, then closed her eyes and focused her mind on the damage to her body. Her mental powers were startling, but she knew that what she was doing was extremely temporary. She would have to regenerate very soon.

_I have to put it off; it has to be strategic, too. I don't want to waste the energy. It can be for dramatic purposes or for disguise, but it can't be wasted._

Her body responded, but it took longer and longer every time she tried this. When she was done readjusting the utilization of healthy cells versus diseased cells, she let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned back on her chaise. She opened her eyes and looked out on the nearly perfect recreation of the solarium in the home she had shared with the Doctor. The two suns indicated to her it was late afternoon; she could see the swaying red grass in the distance, could all but hear the way the breeze ruffled through that grass. If she closed her eyes she could imagine that Suzian was with her husband in another part of the house, listening to his silly stories of humans and Earth and how different things were there.

It wasn't right, though. Things were missing; she had stopped asking the TARDIS to replicate her favorite beverage because she could no longer be sure it was doing the job well. Her memory of the taste of coronal sunflower essence was failing her. Also, the hair she could see in her periphery was this tawny golden mass of waves, not the pin-straight fall of platinum she'd had at the time.

She closed her eyes. Something else was different. When she'd done this before, she'd ended the session either angry or miserable. She didn't feel that way now. Instead she'd drifted away from the faulty details of her illusion and started thinking about that . . .that _man._ Not the Doctor this time. That . . .that _Sherlock._

He was brilliant. She wanted to quickly amend her conclusion and say that he was brilliant _for a human_, but that was inauthentic and cheap, and it stole from him the strained nobility of his genius. He was brilliant _period_. He was the find of the century, and having survived only ten of those so far, that was significant. She smiled softly to herself when she imagined what it would be like to keep her end of the bargain they'd struck, to show him distant worlds and try to convince him that he could trust the evidence of his senses. Could she teach him about all of the known dimensions – time, perception, sensation – and the theories about the unknown ones? Would he want to help her continue her work?

She shook her head. That was too much. He was fascinating, yes, but she had to distance herself from such sentimental claptrap. Sentiment was what had blinded her so long ago. She had to execute justice on behalf of her people, then she had to –

"What?" she asked herself softly. "What then?"

It was, after all, possible that she _could_ finally find the Doctor after all this time, now that she had Sherlock. She'd come farther in the past two weeks than she'd come in the past two centuries. Could she bear to have her business so swiftly concluded when she had no plan to sustain herself afterwards?

The soft chime of welcome, faithfully recreated from her Gallifreyan home's sound system, let her know that someone with a key had accessed the TARDIS. He had returned. This should not have filled her with the optimism she was feeling now. She was supposed to be cross with him for leaving in the first place. That raw _pleasure_ was unwelcome – wasn't it?

She took a deep breath and carefully lifted herself off the chaise. She looked around at her phantom solarium, took another deep breath, then strode briskly from the room.

* * *

Sherlock was standing at the console to the TARDIS, staring at a display. The images flickering across the display were now very familiar to them both: the four known faces of the Doctor and several more that were consistent enough to be other regenerations; the known companions; the Doctor's odd TARDIS, forever trapped as a blue police box; and the locations all over London in which the TARDIS had been photographed.

"How do I stop an image to study it?" he asked as she entered the console room. No preamble; no greeting. No excuses or explanations for his disappearance last night. Oh, the Counsellor knew where he'd gone and what he'd done from a simple scan of his mind. He wasn't trying to hide it. Of course he'd visited his old residence. The power of the place was still strong for him, and apparently undeniable. But after that – that was far worse. He'd gone to visit someone whose face was cloaked in shadow and he'd purchased something he shouldn't put in his body.

Images of what he'd seen and felt assaulted her mind: _High. Higher. Must go higher. Far from my failure to contain those emotions. Rise above it, purge. Eliminate._

_EX-TER-MIN-ATE._

She gasped.

He turned to her, startled by that sound. She was clutching one of the support pillars of the TARDIS and staring at him, her raw fear unhidden.

"Counsellor?"

She shrank away. "Dalek," she whispered.

He approached her quickly but he did not move to support her as she slid to the floor. "What did you say?"

"Dalek."

"What's a . . .dalek?"


	12. I Will Leave

Sherlock was not a happy man.

The morning after his first real bender in weeks had resulted in an uncooperative client. The Counsellor had retreated behind a mask after the "dalek" comment, and he'd barely gotten two words from her since. This was a violation of the working relationship they'd developed over the past week: Discuss the case, ask questions about the Doctor, ask questions about Gallifrey, ask questions about the companions . . .get answers. Every time. Even the initial refusal to answer his questions about regeneration had eventually given way to what was perhaps _too much_ information as she forced him to relive her one and only transformation.

But for some reason _Dalek_ was not an acceptable topic for conversation. He was forced to watch her get ready for their meeting with Martha Jones, exchanging the camel-colored pantsuit for a soft beige sundress, then a light brown blouse and slacks with a tan scarf. She was fussing, which was totally unlike her. She was avoiding him.

But why? What was it about that word? And where had her meltdown come from?

Her unwillingness to cooperate was giving him a headache and, added to the churning pit of discomfort in his stomach from too much drug and not enough food, he thought he might just walk off this case, interplanetary travel be damned.

She strode quickly out of her private quarters into the console room, her eyes blazing. She seemed to be between outfits; she had on a strange, animal-printed dress in deep browns and creams as well as a thick, cable-knit cashmere jumper pulled over the top. "Don't go," she said, her voice trembling.

He really should be more irritated with her that she kept reading his mind like that. Oddly enough he was growing accustomed to it. "Why should I stay?" he asked.

"Because . . .I need you."

"You don't need anyone."

"You've gotten me far closer to finding him than I've been in decades."

"Centuries," he corrected her. It wasn't meant to be boastful; on the contrary, he wanted her to remain honest and not try to cheapen the work he had managed to do around her mysteries and misdirections and sheer otherworldliness.

She gave him a frightened smile. "Yes. Centuries."

He fixed his gaze on her. "Very well. What's a _dalek_?"

She shuddered. "I – I can't tell you that right now."

He held out his hand, palm up, the transparent strip of film that granted him access to the TARDIS glistening in the light. "Tell me however you can, but you _do_ have to tell me."

"Why this?" she asked.

He dropped his hand and sighed. "Counsellor, I do my job by examining all of the evidence and making deductions. I have to have _all_ of the evidence. At a crime scene the evidence is all around; the color of the victim's lipstick, the way a man's fingernails have been cut, the brand of socks he's wearing. It's all relevant and every single detail is a clue. But this –" he gestured around himself at the impossible structure in which he was standing – "this is a mountain of hidden evidence. I can't spend every minute begging you to share information with me. I'm not that kind of detective. Either you give me the information I need when I need it or I will leave."

She shuddered. That was something, an honest, unfiltered reaction from her. Whatever the word actually referred to, _Dalek_ meant terror to her, and it also seemed to be blocking an even deeper truth, one she'd been keeping from even herself.

"I will tell you," she said in a hollow whisper. "I will. But I need to build up to it. That word was . . ." She swallowed. "They hunted us for sport. They brought about the end."

Sherlock turned his head slightly. Something not true in that statement. Something inconsistent with things she'd said previously. "You said your husband brought about the end."

Her face locked down again. "I – they – he . . ."

He checked his watch. "We're already late, Counsellor." He then took the liberty of grasping her chin firmly between his fingers and bringing her eyes back to his. Her strange bronze eyes were the contradiction to the mask she was wearing; they were panicked. "Understand me, though; if you do not answer my questions about that word, _Dalek_, I _will_ leave."

* * *

"Is she safe?" Martha asked Jack as he wired her with a monitoring device.

"Perfectly safe, miles from here."

She looked down at him and flashed him a marvelous smile. It was her coping mechanism, and he saw it for what it was. She was terrified. "Guarded?"

"Five of my best people."

"I'd feel better if it was seven."

"Martha –"

"We know the Doctor," she said, her voice a hush. "He may not be very good with the feelings of specific people, but he would die before he let any human die."

He nodded.

"We don't know this other one," she said. "She might be here to destroy us all, like the Master."

"That's why we're here," he reminded her gently.

She let out a short laugh, just a release of nerves. "Yes, of course. And it has to be me because I traveled with him and she's trying to hunt him down. And it has to be my family because it has to be me."

"Mickey and I will be right upstairs," Jack said, gesturing up to one of the barricaded tower windows. "We'll be watching everything." He glanced down at the tremble in her hands. "You're going to have to get that under control."

Another nervous burst of laughter. "Oh, right."

He took her cool hands in his warm ones. "As far as I'm concerned, you are still one of us, Martha Jones-Smith. You are a soldier, an operative. Just for today I need you to not be a wife and mother. Let us be that for you. Be cool and calm. Remember your training; ask the questions, find out her intentions."

Her trembling calmed as she absorbed all of that. She gave him another smile, but instead of nerves, a wealth of steel reinforced this one. "Yes, of course. Soldier." She winked at him. For his money, Jack thought there were few things in the world as breathtaking as Martha's smile.

Gwen Cooper's voice came from over his shoulder, the sound of Welsh music in every syllable. "Captain, she's on the move. The telepath sensors are indicating she's on her way here."

He grinned up at her. "She's late. Bad, bad Time Lord." He then turned to Martha once more. "Try to block your mind. Protect us and your family. Do whatever you can."

Martha nodded, and Captain Jack Harkness bounded to his feet. "It's showtime, people!"

And on cue, everyone at the Tower of London began to move, all MI5 operatives playing their part to appear touristy. _Let's see how good Sherlock Holmes really is._


	13. Run

Sherlock drew closer to the Tower of London, his eyes narrowed. His extra sense – some would say it was his instinct – was tingling. There was something wrong here. He couldn't put his finger on it yet, but that sense of his was what prompted his suspicion and sharpened the rest of his senses to start gathering data.

The Counsellor followed him closely, but he suddenly thought it might not be close enough. He'd instructed her to follow his prompts, to play along with whatever game he decided to play at a moment's notice, so he looked behind him now, caught her eye, and smiled warmly. She returned his smile. It _almost _touched her eyes.

_Not good enough._

He reached behind him, palm up. "Come now, sweetheart. You can't stay mad at me forever."

She was distracted and he knew it, but this was no time to let his client ruin what might be the best chance they had at solving her case. He wiggled his fingers at her. She caught on finally and, blushing prettily, she let him take her hand.

_You have to do better than that,_ he scolded her telepathically.

_Sorry. I'm a little disoriented._ He saw a rapid flash of images. The common theme seemed to include a trash compactor with two attachments sticking out the front of it: a blender whip and a plunger.

_It is not the time to be disoriented. I need to lead you. Let me._

_This is your element. Lead. I'll follow._

It was refreshing to hear the sincerity in her thoughts. He hadn't felt such sincerity since he'd met John Watson and been flattered so thoroughly by the man.

He led her by the hand to the group tour office. As they walked, he processed the crowd: Obvious American tourists in tacky plaid shorts and cameras strung around their necks; a French family, dressed in linen and fashionably tanned; several Asian groups milling about the office, taking silly novelty photos of each other.

_This isn't right_, he thought to himself – and her.

_What isn't?_

_I'm not sure yet. These people don't seem preoccupied enough. They have no tunnel vision. They're very aware._

_Of what?_

He took a closer look at each group. The "Americans" had stopped to fuss with their cameras. They were good; they managed to make their surveillance seem like disoriented tourist gawking. The French and Asians were the same, scanning the crowd, scanning the buildings – but something was missing from every face.

_Wonder._

Sherlock felt a chill down his spine. _We're being watched._

_By whom?_

He looked at every single face now and saw the same charade everywhere, the same cold analysis under the sheen of harmless wandering. It was what he was doing, after all.

_Everyone._

_What do you mean, everyone?_

_Everyone here is a plant. _He sighed. _Mycroft._

_You've said that name before. Mycroft. Who is Mycroft?_

_My interfering brother._

_And is he a threat?_

_Always._

_So what do we do?_

Sherlock scanned the scene again. Some of the eyes were abandoning their aimless scanning and focusing on him. Were they forgetting their performance? Was the trap closing?

He pressed his lips into a thin line. _We keep with the plan until it becomes clear that someone is presenting us with an opportunity to fight. Can you fight?_

In the cinema of his mind a slow, cruel smile spread like fire. _Oh, yes._

Standing next to the group tour office was a striking woman who Sherlock immediately recognized as Dr. Martha Jones, former companion to his client's husband. He approached her now, putting on his most disarming smile. "Dr. Jones," he said in greeting. He did not release the Counsellor's hand, but he held out his right in greeting.

"Mr. Holmes, please call me Martha," she said. Her smile was just as disarming and just as insincere. "Who is your friend?"

"Astrid Smith," she said smoothly. He looked behind her and saw that she was smiling, and hers was just as disarming and insincere as his and Martha's had been. She held up her left hand in greeting but kept his hand gripped tightly in her right hand.

"That isn't your real name though, is it?" Martha asked.

The Counsellor's smile hardened. "It's a good enough name to go by for this business."

_Softly_, Sherlock thought to his client, squeezing her hand.

Martha dropped her smile altogether. "What is this business, anyway? I was asked to meet with you, and the people asking me for the favor are very . . .influential. What do you want from me?"

_Let me do this_, Sherlock said. _It's time for you to trust me and let me do my job._

His client gave him a quick nod.

"We need to know if you've heard from the Doctor lately."

"The Doctor. And what do you know about the Doctor?"

Sherlock tilted his head from side to side, a casual indication of ambivalence. "Not much. Time Lord, Gallifrey, regeneration." He shrugged. "Nothing to really go on."

"And why would I tell you anything?"

_She wants to get information from you, Sherlock._

_I know._

_How can you know that?_

He shook his head. Not the time. "Because maybe he should know he's not alone."

Martha let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Alone? The Doctor is never alone, not for long. He has made a habit of taking a new companion whenever he gets bored with the silence in his TARDIS. Don't you know that?"

The hand in Sherlock's tightened. He squeezed back. "That's why we thought we'd talk to you."

"Oh, because there's a Former Companions Club that meets once a week to discuss his movements and activities, like gossiping about an ex?"

He shrugged again. "Isn't there?"

She crossed her arms in front of herself. "No, there's not."

"Why not?"

Her smile reappeared, no longer insincere. She was clearly incredulous. He'd seen this expression most often on Sally Donovan's face. "You can't be serious. Why would I want to associate with any of his other companions? I just want to live my life. I have a family now. I want to leave it all behind me and live my life."

The Counsellor's mind fed him rapid streams of information. It was confusing, chaotic, and brilliant. _She's lying. She can't leave it behind. "None of us can." UNIT. Torchwood. Warning. _

"You can't leave it all behind you," Sherlock said, quickly gleaning from the stream the most relevant talking point. "That's why you're here. Someone pulled you back in – Torchwood? Was it Torchwood?"

Her eyes grew wide and round. She looked at the Counsellor. "Who are you? You're reading my mind, aren't you?"

The Counsellor smiled, and this smile reminded Sherlock of that dangerous forest-fire smile he'd seen in his mind. "Yes."

"Who are you?"

"Don't answer that," Sherlock said.

"How are you giving him my thoughts?" Martha pointed at their joined hands. Sherlock was surprised to realize he'd all but forgotten he still held her hand. "Is that it? You can communicate with him that way? By touch?"

"What does that matter?" Sherlock asked. His voice was full of his tension and frustration; he'd lost control of this meeting, and he didn't like that. "You have us surrounded with – what? MI5 agents? It can't be Torchwood agents, that agency was decimated according to reports and you don't have this many people." He swept his hand over the crowd milling about, drawing closer to them with every step.

"To use your words, what does that matter?"

"It makes me uncomfortable," he answered. His eyes were narrowed. He knew he and his client were in danger . . .but he couldn't help but feel thrilled for the first time in ages. _This_ was his purpose, to wade into dangerous waters and shake loose the monsters, exposing them to the sun. "I don't like being surrounded by morons."

"You really are an arrogant git," Martha said, once again wearing the Donovan Slackjaw. "I thought it was an exaggeration."

"Deflection. Now are we here to trade information or are we just going to pick apart each other's debate styles?"

"You haven't given me any information, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock."

"No. I will not call you Sherlock. Give me something interesting."

"Why would I do that? You have already claimed to not know anything about the Doctor's whereabouts or his current companions. You have nothing to give me in exchange. I think this interview is over."

"You know better than that."

_Firearms, some alien weapons. Sharp shooters. Posted all around us. Sherlock._

"Are you planning to kill us?"

"Convince me we don't have to. Who is she?" Martha pointed at the Counsellor.

He turned to her again, hoping to see that alien intelligence, the cool calm analysis in her strange eyes, the calculation that so closely mirrored his own. Unfortunately that's not what he saw. He saw something that made his blood run cold. She was trembling, her eyes wide.

_They've found me._

_Who?_

"Who is she!" Martha shouted.

"She's. My. _Client._" Sherlock growled.

"What's wrong with her?" Martha asked.

Sherlock watched as the Counsellor bared her teeth. She glared up into the sky, her eyebrows drawing down over her eyes. Sherlock squeezed her hand, and finally she started giving him information. One word. Just one.

_Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dal –_

"Counsellor."

"Is that what she's called?" Martha asked.

_Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek_

Sherlock looked up into the sky. He saw nothing. _What's going on?_

_Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek_

A loudspeaker crackled to life overhead. An American voice boomed out a warning to everyone gathered below. "Incoming! We have incoming! All agents –"

The Counsellor screamed, pulled free from Sherlock, and rushed to the nearest "tourist." She pulled hard on the coat draped over the man's arm (_A coat? It's the warmest day in May!_) and revealed a firearm the likes of which Sherlock had never seen. She pulled the weapon free, returned to Sherlock, and seized his hand in a punishing grip.

_Sherlock_, she thought at him, and once again his mind was flooded with images of those rubbish bins – clearer now, covered in rounded bumps and still sporting the blender and plunger attachments. Somehow the images didn't seem so silly. There was danger, so much danger. His heart stuttered.

"What?" he asked, his voice thinned to a whisper in his mounting panic.

_Run._


	14. Exterminate

_What is going on?_

He looked over at the Counsellor who was running beside him. They were fleeing the Tower of London. For some reason they were being followed by a very sparse few: Martha and two men, one dark-skinned and intensely brooding and the other taller, fair-skinned, and wearing a coat as military as Sherlock's was fashionable.

_Daleks._

_Plural?_

She nodded and cast her eyes skyward.

"This is you, isn't it?" Martha shouted from behind them. "Astrid or whatever your name is. _Counsellor_. This has to do with you, doesn't it?"

_Yes_, the Counsellor's voice reverberated in his head.

"That makes no sense," the dark-skinned man said as they ran. "Why would the Daleks obey a Time Lord?"

"Daleks?" Sherlock asked, hoping somebody would start filling in some information and soon.

"Maybe she's working with them," Martha said. "Maybe she's sold us all to them like slaves."

"They have no use for slaves," the other man shouted. "Focus. Let's try to get her to a safe place."

"Why would we do that?" Martha asked.

"Because we have to find out what's going on!" he answered. "Don't forget your training. Don't make this personal."

"How do you all know she's a Time Lord?" Sherlock asked them. The time for being discreet was done. It was time for answers – for all of them.

The other man let out a merry laugh. "By her TARDIS, of course."

"How –"

"Later," the man said. He picked up the pace of his run, pressing into an all-out sprint and rounding a corner.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked.

_Sherlock._

_What?_

_Do you trust these people?_

_No._

_Why are we following them?_

_We weren't at first._

_Then we shouldn't now._

He pulled up short. He agreed. He turned –

And was face-to-face with the dark-skinned man. A gun was leveled at him. The man was smiling. "Mickey Smith, Mr. Holmes. Big fan of the blog."

"Not my blog," Sherlock said drily.

"Doesn't matter. Keep going."

"No." The Counsellor pointed her own weapon at Mickey Smith. She didn't flinch and she didn't release Sherlock's hand.

"Do you know what that thing is?" Mickey asked as he stared down the barrel of the alien weapon. Sherlock noticed immediately that his hands were steady.

_He's done this before,_ he advised the Counsellor. _Careful._

"Sontaran antimatter blaster," she said coolly, answering Mickey's question. "I know what it is and I know how to use it, probably better than you do. I was trained at the Academy, after all."

Sherlock saw another weapon enter his field of vision, this one a standard Earth weapon: a 9 millimeter handgun. He shifted his vision to find that Martha Jones was gazing down the sights at his client. "Fancy your chances to get a shot off before I do?" the beautiful doctor asked the Counsellor. Her hand also was steady. Stupidly his mind belched a thought: _UNIT is real. Torchwood is real. They're training warriors._

_That might have been useful to me before,_ the Counsellor advised him as she relaxed and let the alien weapon drop to her side.

"Where did you guys go?" They all turned to find the other man, the ridiculously handsome American, standing further away down the alley. "We have to get to the safehouse."

The Counsellor winced; Sherlock could feel the stress in her. "Too late," she whispered as a series of explosions rattled the deepening evening in the direction from which they'd come. A steady droning chant started to fill the sky.

_EX-TER-MIN-ATE. EX-TER-MIN-ATE. EX-TER-MIN-ATE._

_What._

His client released his hand and dropped to one knee. She braced the alien weapon against her shoulder and pointed the muzzle skyward. She was grumbling a steady stream of insults: "You damn idiot. You eradicated your own people to save the universe from the Kaleds, and yet here we are, waging the same old war. Moron! You thoroughgoing moron! So much for protecting your precious humans . . ."

"Kaleds?" Sherlock asked. He was the least informed person present, and he _hated_ it. _Is this how normal people feel around me?_ He asked himself again. He didn't like the answer.

Nobody answered him. They were all staring at the sky, waiting. Sherlock found that was all he could do, too.

Then it started. He saw wave after wave of those rubbish bins (_Daleks, they're called Daleks, maybe Kaleds, no idea_) appear overhead.

"This is your doing, Counsellor!" Martha Jones shouted over the increasing drone (_EX-TER-MIN-ATE, EX-TER-MIN-ATE, EX-TER-MIN-ATE_). "You brought them here!"

"I know," his client said softly. "I am sorry for that. I truly am. I just . . .I had to find him."

"Who?" Mickey asked.

"You know who," she answered. "I can read it in your thoughts. You know I've come to find the Doctor."

"You aren't supposed to even be alive!" Martha shouted. "He said he was the last!"

"And yet it seems you've met the Master, too. Do you want to tell me how you can hold to anything he's told you?"

"Come now, girls," the other man said. He'd dropped to one knee, too, and he was wielding a massive weapon that seemed to be made of chrome. "No time for a catfight. Bigger issues."

The Counsellor shot him a scalding look but held her place. "Sherlock, get behind me," she said calmly.

"I –"

"I have to protect you. I promised I would."

"Time Lords and their promises," Martha grumbled.

The sky began to pulse with incoming fire. "Hold . . ." the other man cried. "Hold fire until they're close enough!"

"I know!" the Counsellor answered.

Sherlock was standing behind these four, watching as the floating legions of Daleks drew closer, ever closer. Their fire was starting to impact the buildings around the alley in which they were hiding. He blinked, trying to reset his sense of sight. _This . . .this can't be happening. How is this happening? Perhaps this is only and elaborate dream. Must wake now, Sherlock. Wake in Baker Street. Rise and tell John what you dreamed for once. Share with him, before it's too late._

It wasn't a dream. A sizzling pulse of electricity passed him not two feet to his left.

"Fire!" the other man shouted, and all present weapons – alien and human alike – unleashed. The human weapons did next to no good, but the alien weapons were horrifying in their scope. The other man's massive weapon emitted a brilliant blue pulse of fiery energy that tore through the space between them and knocked the first wave of Daleks from the sky. They dropped, useless deadweight with no purpose but to prove the theory of gravity was still an irrevocable rule of the universe.

The Counsellor's weapon, however, was far more massive. She ran three fingers over the stationary trigger and a reverberating _whoomp_ filled the air around them all. He could see the air ripple around the invisible field's trajectory. The force slammed into the incoming Dalek forces, but instead of simply dropping them like debris, the pulse completely undid them. They evaporated in a flash and sizzle, screaming as they were unmade.

Sherlock stood stock still, gazing up into the sky as more Daleks came streaming in to replace the ones that had fallen. He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear whatever illusion was grounding him to this ridiculous reality. His maddening client and the other three people – Torchwood, surely, even though before today he would have scoffed anyone who had insisted that Torchwood was real – still knelt in front of him, their weapons pointed up into the sky.

"Get down if you don't want to get dead," the other man said as he prepared his weapon to release another pulse of blue energy.

"Who are you?"

"Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood," he said and laid claim to another facet of this thing that threatened to drive Sherlock mad.

Sherlock dove for the pavement. "How many are there?" he asked.

"Millions."

"_Millions._"

"Yes."

"And you think you might win, do you?"

"Not trying to win. Just trying to buy some time."

"For what?"

A percussive sound reverberated in the close alley behind them. It was a low grinding noise under a higher, more ethereal sound, a trembling vibration that seemed to clear space, hollowing out an area void of even the elementals of oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon.

"For that," Jack Harkness said. Sherlock could hear a smile in the man's voice, but he didn't turn back to verify it – because the space that had been cleared by the strange noise was being filled with something that he found eerily familiar. It was a blue police box.

Sherlock heard his client let out a strangled sob as the form solidified and came firmly into this dimension. The advancing hordes of Daleks slowed to a stop. Everything in the universe had ground to a halt; even his breath had stopped as the air became heavy with the pregnant pause of a galaxy.

The door of the Doctor's TARDIS rattled slightly and finally opened. An odd young man with a messy flop of brown hair and, of all things, a bow tie securely fastened at his neck stepped out. He looked directly at the Counsellor and flashed a brilliant smile. He gestured up at the waiting Daleks. "A gift? Honey, you shouldn't have."


	15. The Doctor and the Dalek

"Doctor?" Martha asked.

The Doctor gave her a tight smile. "Hello, Martha. You and Mickey getting on alright?"

Mickey gave him a friendly wave. "You look . . .different."

"Yes, yes I do," he said, then he redirected his attention back to the Counsellor who was still crouched on one knee, the Sontaran whatever-it-was poised on her shoulder and pointed into the sky where hundreds of Daleks hung suspended. "What are you doing here?"

She clamped her jaw shut.

"No answer? That's not like you, darling." He turned round again and stopped when he saw Captain Jack Harkness. "Jack!"

Jack returned the Doctor's smile. "Doctor. You've regenerated. How often?"

"Just the once," he said. He turned around once, his hair flopping dramatically from side to side. "What do you think?"

Jack frowned. "Can't say I like the bow tie."

"What? Why not?" The Doctor adjusted the bow tie self-consciously. "Bow ties are cool."

The American smiled and let out a weak chuckle. "Oh yeah. That's you."

Sherlock wondered if he was having another LSD hallucination. _This is mad. I've gone down the rabbit hole, and the Cheshire Cat just arrived._ If he was being honest with himself, there was something . . ._fun_ about the whole thing. _Yes, definitely should question my sanity. Later, when there's time._

"You were never going to see us again, were you?" Martha asked.

The strange, half-mad merriment drained from the Doctor's face. "If I've learned anything, it's that I can never say _never_," he said, which Sherlock knew was no answer at all.

"Incoming," Jack said, and Sherlock spun to look once again up into the narrow slit of sky over the alley.

"Don't fire," the Doctor said. It wasn't a command; it was a request directed at the Counsellor. "I think it's a parlay."

"Parlay?" the Counsellor asked. Sherlock saw how her fingers hovered over the trigger of the Sontaran weapon and he could see the strain in her face as she abstained. "Since when do we _parlay_ with Daleks?"

"Since they outnumber us roughly a million to one. Besides, you know how I feel about guns."

"You idiot!" Her voice was a strained, mangled cry of desperate emotions. Sherlock hated hearing it; he'd developed a great deal of respect for the cool rationality of the woman. _One more reason to avoid these flown-spouse cases in the future. Seeing that twisted sentiment and being let down –_

But had he really been let down? Hadn't he just been thinking he was having fun? Wasn't this better than the endless, miserable, lonesome _boredom_ he'd been subjected to?

"Careful, Counsellor," he murmured, his voice dipping into a deeper register without him even trying. "You're out of sorts."

"And who's this then?" the Doctor asked, turning to Sherlock and fixing him with an unbalanced, almost gleeful gaze.

"DOCTOR."

Everyone shifted their attention to the metallic voice that had precluded any further introductions. The Dalek who had descended to "parlay" sported a white chassis, quite different from the swarm of red Daleks still holding their position in the sky overhead.

"Right! Hello." The Doctor stepped forward, and Sherlock took a step back. He'd been on the verge of writing off this Time Lord as just an odd fellow, eccentric, sure – after all, who wore bow ties? – but not in any way dangerous. That observation had to be adjusted. This man's voice was still full of fluff and frippery, but his eyes were dark, dangerous, and dripping with menace.

"TWO OF YOU." The protuberant lens on the front of the swiveling domed top turned towards the Counsellor. "DYING."

The Doctor sighed. "You gents know better than that, though, don't you?"

Sherlock's throat clenched. "Dying? What does it mean, dying?" His gaze drilled through his client. She shot him a glance full of guilt and sadness, and he stopped asking.

"You know this planet is under my protection," the Doctor continued as if Sherlock hadn't said a word, as if everything hadn't changed. "What are you doing here?"

"WE DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR PROTECTION," the Dalek screeched. "WE REQUIRE REGENERATION ENERGY."

"And what would you need that for?"

"IT WOULD ACCELERATE OUR ABILITY TO REPLICATE DALEKS."

"You think I would find that a good idea, do you?"

"WE WOULD NOT SEEK CONQUEST HERE."

"But you would seek conquest elsewhere."

"IT IS OUR RIGHT."

"Right?" the Counsellor screamed. "What right? You have no rights!"

"Darling, please. Now is not the time."

"Why do you keep calling her _darling_?" Martha asked, her eyes fixed on the Counsellor.

The Doctor shot Martha a look that she'd apparently seen before, albeit on a different face. "You've swept into London and opened fire on innocent civilians. Not exactly the way to get me to help you, is it?"

"THEY WERE NOT CIVILIANS." The appendage – what Sherlock had deduced served as some sort of eye stalk – swiveled to focus on Jack Harkness.

"They were not there for war," Jack protested.

"TRAINED WARRIORS DO NOT NEED A REASON TO ENGAGE IN WAR."

"Oh, but it doesn't hurt to give them one, does it? Now you can say you were only defending yourselves. Bit much coming from you."

"YOU WILL GIVE US THE OTHER TIME LORD."

The Doctor stepped back, his attitude well and truly offended. "I – I don't think she's mine to give, not anymore."

"But you _would_ give me up to them to protect your precious _humans_," the Counsellor hissed.

"Who the hell is this woman?" Mickey asked, staring at her with open contempt.

"YOU WILL SURRENDER HER TO US OR WE WILL EX-TER-MIN-ATE –"

"Over my dead body," the Doctor said. He raised his right arm and pointed something at the white Dalek, some sort of – well, to Sherlock, there was no other way to describe the device but to say it looked like a sort of tool, like a screwdriver.

"YOU WILL NOT STOP US," the Dalek screeched.

"I will make it rain Daleks," the Doctor said.

Sherlock gasped. Something was happening. A strange sensation of falling fluttered through his system. He staggered. "Counsellor?" he whispered – and then he was airborne, and the sense of falling intensified until it overwhelmed him.

He heard the Counsellor cry out below him: "No! Wait – take me. Leave him."

"WE WILL TAKE YOU BOTH."

Sherlock tried to regain his wits, but he wasn't sure that was possible. He was floating hundreds of feet over London with no visible means of support, he was dizzy from spinning in space with no way to correct the motion – and, to top all of that off, he was filled with a sense of betrayal.

_She's dying._

If he could have gained equilibrium, he would have tried to find her with his eyes, survey her form for signs of damage. Would he have been able to see anything?

Did it make a difference?

No. He guessed it really didn't. It may have been tragic that she was dying, but it wasn't his tragedy. His tragedy was that she had used him, just like everyone else used him. He was a freak, a weird aberration of humanity who could understand a series of events by simply scanning the outcome for a few minutes. He wasn't appreciated for his skill; most of the time, he was mocked. A lifetime of the mockery had left him gasping, starved for attention and appreciation, and when he got it he tended to fixate on the people giving it to him.

And all of that desperate behavior had led him to this, spinning in space and being tractioned up into the sky by a race of aliens who hid themselves behind metal bodysuits.

He shook himself. _Focus. Concentrate. Why did they take _you?

It was a good question. They could have taken anyone – the beautiful Dr. Jones, the charismatic Captain Harkness, even the Doctor himself, despite the obvious fear these creatures had of him and his _protection_.

But they took him. It made no sense.

A hand slipped into his and he abruptly stopped spinning. He knew that hand. He recognized the immediate feeling of calm that spread through his limbs. But the Counsellor didn't stop at simply soothing him. She pulled him tight against her.

_You're wrong._

_Wrong about what?_

_You _are_ appreciated for your skill._

_Counsellor –_

_I appreciate you, Sherlock. You did it. I owe you._

He shuddered. Those words – _I owe you – _why did she have to use those words?

_I'm sorry. I didn't know – I'm so sorry._

_Aren't you afraid?_

_Terrified._

_Then why –_

_I'm willing to face my greatest fear to protect you, Sherlock._

Before he could stop himself, he thought, _You'll leave me._ He felt a sob rise in his throat. Sentiment? Was he really guilty of this, now that his life was surely forfeit?

_No._

_Everyone does._

_Not me. I won't. Not until the day you leave._

_Oh._ Sherlock suddenly saw it all with the startling clarity, that moment he loved best, the moment when his intuition ripped the veil away and revealed every facet of The Truth. This creature who was clinging to him – she was so very much the same as him: arrogant, misunderstood, repeatedly abandoned, and in desperate need of someone who not only believed in her but was willing to go to the mat for her, stand up for her and declare an unwavering allegiance to her. Everyone in her life had always favored the Doctor, her wayward husband, the charismatic madman who, when you stripped away all of the charm and fun, had done some truly atrocious things to those he'd claimed to love. Even his precious human companions hadn't been spared the searing fire of the danger he represented.

_Sherlock._

_Yes._

_I want to be a better friend to you._

He pressed his lips into a thin line. _You already are._

_I need you to help me._

_Do what?_

_Help me figure out a way to get back to my TARDIS. I don't want to regenerate in the custody of the Daleks._

Sherlock Holmes let out a sharp bark of laughter, but he nodded. Why the hell not promise her the impossible? This whole case had been a series of proofs of the impossible. _Yes, of course._


	16. Escape

Sherlock hadn't realized he'd passed out until he came to some time later, seated, hands bound behind his back. He winced against the pain of his bound hands; the blood flow was barely a trickle anymore.

"You're awake."

The Counsellor's voice rang from behind him. They were in a large empty space then; her voice seemed to reverberate against what he had to assume were metal walls.

"Only just," he said. His throat felt raw. "Where are we?"

"On board the Dalek mothership."

He dipped his head and groaned. "Of course we are."

"We need to get out of here."

"Because you're dying."

"Because I'm going to regenerate soon and I don't want to do it here. They'll capture the energy of it and redirect it into some Dalek generation program. We can't have that."

"Why not?"

"Because Daleks are conditioned to conquest, to target sentient creatures and destroy them. They'd reached their apotheosis with the Time Lords." Her voice thinned, and what came next was said in a tone of pure defeat. "The Time War should have ended it. Rassilon, our leader, had already determined that we were to sacrifice ourselves to save the universe from the Daleks and their blind aggression, but it seemed the Doctor had already decided it and he executed his own plan."

Sherlock braced himself for pain and extended his right hand, flailing around to try to find the Counsellor's hand. "Where are you?"

"Oh, Sherlock." He was confused by the tone of her voice. "I won't be able to speak to you that way again, not until . . .after."

"After what?"

Her silence was deafening, and he didn't need her touch to remember the intense pain and pleasure of the process she called _regeneration._

"Why not?"

"Why do you like it?"

"It's the most efficient form of communication, and it seems we don't have the time to waste. You're talking about the Daleks, and I need all the information I can get as quickly as you can provide it."

"So there's nothing . . .sentimental about it, is there?"

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Sentiment. Not my area, no."

"Good. It's . . .not my area, either."

"Once bitten, twice shy?"

"Mm," she hummed in assent. "I don't allow access to my hearts that way. It would be as stupid as giving someone the remote control to my TARDIS."

He said nothing for a moment, but he didn't try to prevent her reading his thoughts. He let them play out, how every time he'd made the mistake to be emotional or sentimental he'd paid too dear a price.

Naturally, she'd read every image. "When I held you earlier, it was only to give comfort," she said.

He nodded. "Yes, I know. And . . .thank you." His words were awkward. They had to be.

"I did mean it. I want to be a better friend to you, the kind of friend you really need."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't promise something you can't deliver."

She let out a weak laugh. "You don't understand regeneration. Don't blame you, but believe me, I can deliver."

He was supposed to be asking about the Daleks. He needed to understand all he could as quickly as he could so he could come up with some impossible plan to get them out of this mess. But it didn't seem that either of them wanted to talk about that right now.

"Explain."

She sighed. He could hear pain in her sigh, and he wondered how long she'd been hiding whatever was killing her from him. "The thoughts and hopes of a Time Lord on the verge of regeneration are very powerful. They strongly affect and influence the coming form. If a Time Lord is happy with their lives and circumstances, they will take a form that is very happy. If they've been influenced especially strongly by a friend or lover, they will bear the mark. As I go into the change, my last thoughts will help to form my new identity."

"And you think your last thoughts will somehow benefit me." His words were colder than he anticipated. He knew that there was no way for her to know that he was protecting himself. He didn't want to believe this, what she was saying. He didn't want to hope that it could be true. Frankly he was tired, too, and he couldn't be bothered to invest his energy in what may be nothing more than emotional blackmail, her way to manipulate him into doing one more thing for her.

"You really think that of me?" she asked in a sad whisper.

"Get out of my head."

"Block me out, then," she said. Then she said no more.

Sherlock groaned. Yes, of course. He had to lock himself away, far away from her prying telepathic mind, retreat to where he might be able to do some good. He closed his eyes and stepped into his Mind Palace.

_Dalek. Kaled. Armour. Armoured aliens. Mothership. Millions. They need something from her, so they won't kill her, and they're using me as collateral, so they won't kill me until they get what they want. Until then we have the leverage and the latitude to negotiate. All we have to offer is her regeneration power – surely true. No evidence they're interested in anything else. We cannot ask for freedom unless we can promise them a way for them to gain the power they want from a distance, and I'm going to assume they're not so stupid to chance it. What can we ask for? It has to seem innocuous, trite, innocent._

_I still have the TARDIS key she gave me, but it's access only, not ignition. She does have ignition, but – can she access the TARDIS from here? And if she can, what is it capable of? _

He smiled to himself. He suspected that her TARDIS was capable of a great deal. He was also hit with another of his blinding moments of truth and was shocked again at the woman's cunning. She'd kept him from discussing the Daleks out loud; all they'd talked about was _feelings_, stupid human emotions. He should have read into her words better.

_"It would be as stupid as giving someone the remote control to my TARDIS."_

_Oh._

He stepped from his Mind Palace. _Counsellor, use your remote control. Can you do that? I'll create a diversion. _

He thought he knew her well enough to know her reaction, and he could almost see the brilliance of her tired smile.

* * *

"Help! Get me out of here! Something's happening to her! Please!"

Sherlock was already calculating what had to happen next. He'd have to move quickly without the use of his arms. They were as good as dead right now after being bound so long. Surely she'd have that part in hand – entry into the TARDIS. Once they got in, they'd be safe. Surely.

_She'd known all along,_ he thought to himself. _She knew that summoning the TARDIS was her way out. It was up to me to create the diversion, but she couldn't say it because no doubt we'd been under surveillance from the moment we'd been brought on board. She – she counted on me, believed I'd get there._

"HUMAN."

He shook against the binds holding him to his seat. "She's – her change, it's starting," he said, forcing his voice to rise in panic. "Get me out."

"WHY?"

"I don't want to die!"

"YOUR WISHES ARE UNIMPORTANT TO US."

A general alarm started up, and Sherlock found it remarkable that general alarms seemed to have a common language, regardless of galaxy or species: it was loud and pitched so high to be unavoidable.

"THE REGENERATION IS STARTING."

_No. Not yet._

He shrieked, hoping it sounded appropriately panicky, and fell backwards in his chair. He angled the fall so he could see her. What he saw threatened to initiate an honest wave of panic to overtake him.

She was _glowing_, a swarming orange glow crawling thick over her skin. She was staring directly at him. Some sort of strong emotion was in play on her face. Finally she cried out: "Spare him. Take him far from here. I don't – I don't want him to see this, to see me like this."

"YOUR WISHES ARE UNIMPORTANT, TIME LORD."

"They'd better be. You know this is too soon. You've been monitoring my vitals, waiting for the proper hormone cascade so you can open your capture devices. If I'm distressed it could stop the cascade and all you'll have to show for your efforts is a dead Time Lord and an angry Doctor."

"THE DOCTOR WILL NOT AVENGE YOU."

"You sure about that?" she asked, a weak but vicious smile spreading on her face. "We are married, after all."

"THE DOCTOR'S WIFE?"

"Didn't you know? Or did you think it was just a random Time Lord on Earth, of all planets?"

"Get me out of here!" Sherlock screamed again, remembering his role.

"Do what he asks," she said, resigning herself. "Do it and I'll give you what you need."

Somehow it worked. Sherlock was cut free of the chair and hauled roughly to his feet, then marched through a newly opened bay door which was shut tight behind him. He watched carefully as the controls were manipulated; very straightforward, a sequence to open the door and a sequence to close it again. He was sure he could do it even with his dead arms. The question was, what then?

He didn't have to wait long for the answer. Directly in front of him the Counsellor's TARDIS started to appear, silent as a held breath and, for the assembled Daleks, as deadly as a Sontaran anti-matter blaster. It emitted a soundless set of golden beams as it materialized and vaporized the aliens all around Sherlock.

He rushed the door and opened it again. The Daleks in the large room he and the Counsellor had been held in were rushing about, setting devices all around his client – _capture devices_, she'd called them – and generally not paying attention to much more than that. He managed to make it through two layers of them before they even noticed him.

_Counsellor –_

"Don't touch me," she whispered as he drew close. She was still glowing with that vaporous orange mist, and he instinctively obeyed despite his fascination. She pulled something out of her jacket pocket, something that looked remarkably like a mobile phone. She pressed a sequence onto the face of it and smiled weakly up at him.

"HUMAN!" one of the nearby Daleks screeched.

She pointed at it and a strange orange bolt of energy shot from her finger.

"Sherlock, I've armed your key. You'll find it can now function like a firearm," she said as she stood on wobbly legs. "Point with your index finger and tap your palm with your other three fingers."

He turned and tried it on the nearest Dalek. He felt the recoil all the way to his elbow, and even felt the burn of the energy as it left his index finger. He desperately hoped he'd have a chance to investigate this in more depth later, perhaps even experiment –

"Sherlock! Come on!" The Counsellor had made it to the bay door and turned back to him. "We'll talk about your experiments later!"

He rushed after her, laughing through the pain of his revascularization of his arms, and shut the bay door.


	17. The End

"Close the door firmly behind you," the Counsellor gasped as she led him into the TARDIS. She staggered, weaving, dizzy on her feet, but she eventually made it to the console.

Sherlock did as she asked, and as soon as the door was secure he heard her throw a switch.

She cried out in pain. He turned to her, watching in horror and amazement. The orange glow had intensified and was radiating off of her.

"Stay well back," she said. "It's almost time."

"I can see that."

She smiled at him. She pressed her back against the wall of the TARDIS and looked around the console room fondly. "The last time I did this I was still on Gallifrey. You saw. It was falling apart." She took a deep, painful breath. "And now here I am on Earth." She cast her eyes at two of the displays on the console. "Well, actually, about three miles over the Earth's surface."

"Er, should I be worried about the safe return you promised me?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I . . .I admit, I didn't think you'd want to return so soon. I thought perhaps we'd see some of those worlds I promised. The fuel coil is fully repaired. If it hadn't been we wouldn't have pulled off that escape trick." She winked. "Good job, by the way."

He shook it off. "The escape isn't finished until those Daleks are gone."

"The Doctor has them well in hand. I think your genius spoiled his plans of a daring rescue. You make it look so easy."

He flushed. "Flattery will get you very far with me, Counsellor."

"Well then," she said, "Mr. Sherlock Bloody-Brilliant Holmes, I would very much like it if you stayed, waited this process out. I'd like it if – if you would travel with me for a while, let me show you wonders." She winked again. "Let me show you that the Earth revolves around the sun."

"You are becoming a little too familiar with my failings."

"Will you let me do that?"

"Become more familiar?"

"Sherlock."

"I'm guessing we don't have the time to joke."

"I have to tell you – just in case –"

Sherlock's heart dropped to his feet. The sensation surprised him. "Just in case . . ._what_?"

"Regenerations are known to go badly from time to time," she said carefully. She swallowed, and the orange miasma around her flickered, died down a little. "Stress, reluctance, being in an unsafe place, sometimes no seeming reason at all. If I truly die –"

"Counsellor –"

"Sherlock, I'm not kidding when I say there's no time for an endless saga of you protesting everything I'm saying." She cleared her throat, then lifted the back of her hand, watching the orange glow on her skin the same way another person would check their watch for the time. "If I truly die, the TARDIS will recognize the disappearance of my vitals and is programmed to take you directly back to Earth, to the same hour on the same day we first met. I want you to leave it behind you. Close the door firmly and destroy the key. It will eventually die. It might take a year, it might take ten, but it will eventually become the thing it resembles last. And that's fine. That's as it should be."

"Why wouldn't you leave it to the Doctor?"

She let out a weak little chuckle. "He has his TARDIS and he won't give it up for anything else." She shook her head. "This is the right way."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "What else?"

Her smile would have been heartbreaking if he still believed he had that kind of heart to break. "When I found you, I only thought of revenge. I've spent the last three hundred years alone and obsessed with my revenge, because that was how I'd regenerated, angry and half-mad with grief and outrage. You changed that by being my friend."

"I thought you were just my employer."

She nodded weakly. It seemed to Sherlock that she was determined to not sink to the floor; she was trying to stay upright, and she began to sway on her feet. "Yes, at first. I didn't want to be anyone's friend."

"So what will you do with your Doctor?"

"What will you do with yours?"

That question took him by surprise. He hadn't thought of John Watson in days. He'd been too busy unraveling mysteries and running from aliens. The hold that his disappointment had on him had evaporated – well, no, perhaps not evaporated. _Lessened_. He wasn't in pain over it.

He shrugged. "Nothing. Perhaps eventually pay him and his wife a visit. Who knows?"

She smiled. "Exactly. I am no longer dependent on the Doctor that way. I don't have to avenge myself or my failed expectations."

Sherlock gave that a sharp nod. "What can I do to make sure you, er . . .come through this?"

"Tell me you'll come with me."

He wasn't so scared that he couldn't give her a cocky smile. "Are you taking a companion, Counsellor?"

She pressed her lips together to trap a laugh. "Let's just say I'm paying my employee."

He shook off the vision of roaming the universe with her. He'd been getting too used lately to disappointment and he didn't want his last memory of this woman to be more of the same. Even so, he wanted to give her what assurances she needed. "Very well." He noted that swarming energy had engulfed her again, and this time it appeared she would not be able to marshal the resources necessary to stop it. He cleared his throat and pulled himself up to his full height, his hands clasped firmly at his back. "Counsellor, it has been an extraordinary pleasure working with you. See you in a moment."

"Mr. Holmes, the pleasure has been all mine, I assure you."

She convulsed once, then threw her head back and her arms out to her sides. Her flesh exploded in plumes of orange, not fire, not ice, but sheer energy bursting off of her. Sherlock's jaw dropped open. He felt the energy from where he stood, and he understood immediately what appeal this kind of energy could have for any technology that could trap it.

_No wonder she told me not to touch her. Imagine – would it rearrange my own cells?_

He staggered back a step, unable to keep from reimagining the hell she was currently going through as her body reinvented itself – the harrowing pain and, somehow, the unbelievable, staggering pleasure. He stared at her, wondering how the thought of him could influence this process.

But he knew, didn't he? He'd faced death with only one person in mind. He'd reached out then, said the words he needed to say to protect that one person. She was doing that for him now. And now he desperately wanted to see her come through this, this strange alien woman with two hearts and a telepathic mind and the same scars he bore. He would never again make the mistake of letting affection get away from him, but respect? Yes, he could respect the holy hell out of the Counsellor.

He drew as close as he dared and watched, spellbound, as the plumes of energy started to pull back into the woman's body. The body – it was different, somehow. Taller. Fit, but still soft in that pleasant way that women had of being soft. Her skin was tanned, but not the same tawny color he'd come to associate with the Counsellor; this was darker, like she'd spent time in the sun by duty, not recreation.

Finally the orange energy was completely gone and he was able to look into her face – her _new_ face. She was smiling at him, sapphire eyes twinkling, pert nose turned up in an expression of eternal mischief. Her hair had a thick, straight texture and the color was unusual, alternating ash and ginger. It fell only to her shoulders, cut in wild layers around her face.

"You look like Peter Pan," he stammered before he was able to stop himself.


	18. Goodbye, Doctor

Her smile of greeting faded into a smirk. "I expected something strange from you. Thank you for not disappointing me."

The voice was different, too – not as somber or cold but rather effervescent and lilting, like she was always on the verge of telling a joke.

"This is what you thought would make a better friend to me?"

"You twit," she said, inspecting her hands and pulling her shoes off so she could look at her new feet. "I wasn't thinking _form_ during the regeneration, and I certainly wasn't focusing all my efforts into making the body appealing to you. I kinda hope you won't be too . . .interested."

"I'm not."

"Good. This isn't your wages, got it?" She pointed a toe at him for emphasis.

He frowned at her. "We've been over this."

She snapped her fingers at him. "Right! We have. Good. Let's not discuss it again."

"Are you okay?"

"Still regenerating. Will be for a little while yet, maybe fifteen hours or so. Want to chop off an extremity? It'll grow back."

"You are behaving very strangely."

"Sorry. It'll settle. Regenerated Time Lords can be a little crazy until everything's settled." She held her hand out to him. "But it's finally safe to do this again, if you want."

He inspected her offered hand and found that, while the fingers weren't as delicate, the fingernails were just as neat and clean as they'd ever been. It was a reassuring benchmark. He took her hand.

_Sherlock._

The mental voice was just the same: Clear, strong, reassuring. This was the Counsellor, _his_ Counsellor, and in the most profound way, the best therapist he could have ever found.

_Counsellor._

_Are you well?_

_Yes. I'm glad you made it through._

_So am I. Let me start fulfilling my promises._

She led him by the hand to the door of the TARDIS. _Where are we going? Didn't you say . . ._

_Yes. Three miles above the Earth's surface._

_And we're still there._

_Yes._

She opened the door. He was used to dashing out of that open door to investigate leads and explore places like the freezing tundra of the South Pole, so he had to remind himself to approach the door slowly.

The glorious arch of the Earth's atmosphere shimmered like a blue crystal dome over the planet. He gazed down into it all, soaking in the glory.

_How am I able to breathe?_

_The TARDIS creates an atmospheric bubble around it. You're fine._

He sat down on the doorstep and looked around. He'd never seen so many stars, could barely fathom the depth of space.

_Every star has its own story_, the Counsellor reminded him. _I can tell you those stories if you'd like. As many of them as you can handle._

Sherlock sagged where he sat.

_Sherlock? What's the matter?_

_What's the point?_

_I don't understand._

_What's the point of seeing it all and knowing it all? _

_What are you saying?_

He turned to her, eager to look into the strange bronze eyes – but those were gone. The eyes staring back at him where a deep blue color, and that was familiar in a heart-wrenching way.

_Down there I have work. I know things. I understand patterns. Human nature – even if I'm outside of it, I understand it. How can I possibly understand all of that out there? Can I be useful out there?_

_You're getting ahead of yourself._

_What do you mean?_

_You don't have to be useful out there. –And before you protest, yes, I know you have a mind that won't quit, that needs puzzles to keep it busy and distracted so it won't rip itself apart. I know this about you. All I'm proposing is the most exceptional laboratory you'll ever know. Get out there, see whatever you want, and when you're ready, we come back to Earth and you can resume your work, with or without me._

He turned to her, startled. _With or without you? What are you saying?_

She smiled at him, and suddenly those sapphire eyes made him feel warm down to his belly in a wonderfully immediate way. _The world's only consulting detective surely needs an assistant. I can be that for you._

Sherlock couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. _Experiments in outer space, where I can be messy and I don't have to clean up –_

_Don't be a pest. Ugh. Human beings._

_And then back to Earth. With you to help me._

_Yes._

_This goes far above and beyond our original bargain._

_I don't mind. I want to._

He grinned again. _Oh, won't Lestrade love this._

She squeezed his hand and flashed him a series of images: the Doctor, Martha, Mickey, and Jack. _We're going to have visitors. We should probably be someplace where we can receive them._

He didn't get up right away. As quickly as the TARDIS moved, he knew they'd get wherever they were going faster than he could measure. He looked into her new sapphire-blue eyes and smiled. _Thank you._

_Thank you,_ she thought, then pulled him back into the TARDIS.

Five minutes later they were standing on the surface of the Earth's moon, safe within the TARDIS's atmosphere bubble.

_Remarkable,_ he thought, his hand secure in hers. He goggled up at the sky, watching the stars in a configuration only seen from the moon. He turned and gazed at the Earth; North America faced him, and he realized it was night there, that people were likely looking up at him, lovers and children and campers and retirees on holidays. It was humbling and a bit overwhelming, and it made him feel that much more removed from the people who had mocked him for being different. For once that wasn't a bad thing.

The strange grinding noise, the announcement of the Doctor's TARDIS, filled the space around him. It materialized fifteen feet away from him, and as soon as it was solidly within the reality he knew the door of the police box swung open and the Doctor stepped out, followed by his old companions.

"Counsellor," the Doctor said carefully, looking into his erstwhile wife's new face. "You look good."

"Why thank you," she said.

The Doctor's eyes swiveled down to their clasped hands. "I'm overdue for an introduction," he said. "I'm the Doctor."

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. He didn't hold out his hand.

"I've been filled in. Mickey's a big fan."

"Not so big a fan he won't pull a weapon on me."

"Seemed to be the day for pulling weapons," Mickey said.

"You helped her find me. I think I'm duty bound to give her the satisfaction of whatever it is she's been waiting for."

"Doctor –" Martha stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this."

"It's all right," he said, again shifting his eyes to the way Sherlock's hand had been captured by the Counsellor's. "I think I'll survive it."

"You know full well how I feel," she said. "You left me. You abandoned me on Gallifrey and didn't even check to see if I was still there before you set us on fire and left."

The Doctor was silent for a while; Sherlock couldn't tell if he was waiting for more accusations or if he was simply gathering his thoughts. It occurred to him again that, for being such a young-looking person, the Doctor's face was the oldest face he'd ever seen.

"I never claimed to be a good man," he finally said.

"That's a cheap excuse for leaving me to die. We were bound, Doctor. I was your wife."

"Yes," he said. "And I thought you'd died."

"Why would that be relevant?" she asked – then she stopped breathing. Sherlock could hear her thoughts through touch: _Oh my God. You got remarried. You awful, awful man. You got remarried._

The Doctor gave her a thin smile. There was no shame in that smile. "Does that hurt you?"

"Oh, you awful, sad, lonely thing," she finally said. "Three weeks ago it would have destroyed me to know I meant so little to you that you could have done such a thing. I would have wanted to kill her."

Sherlock watched the Doctor's face fall as sadness swamped through him. "Ah, no worries there, love. She's already dead."

"Was she . . .human?"

He shrugged. "She was like me; half one thing, half another. In the end, she gave up her regenerations for me and died a mortal."

The Counsellor looked at her husband, and Sherlock felt her thoughts: _Suffering. Oh, my Doctor no more. You should not suffer, you strange, dear thing. _

The Doctor looked up at her sharply. "Comfort, darling? Are you . . .comforting me?" He turned his eyes to Sherlock and gave him a strange smile. "Altruism from my little princess? What affect have you had, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," he said.

Then he felt that he was suddenly under extraordinary scrutiny, that he was being deduced as the Doctor scanned him. "That," the Doctor finally said, pointing at their joined hands, "is not romance. It's . . .strength."

"Yes," the Counsellor said simply. Sherlock suddenly felt awkward, all eyes on him.

"What do you want from me?" the Doctor finally asked. The question was simple, but something about his intonation made it sound heavy with ceremony.

"You married again, so I assume our timestreams are separated."

The Doctor dipped his head in assent. "Yes, I believe so."

She shrugged. "That's all I want. I want to be free to visit any time."

"That's all?"

"Oh – one more thing. I want to know what happened to our granddaughter."

"Ah, well." He stared down at his feet. "She fell in love. With a human."

Sherlock felt the Counsellor's reaction – a brief flash of rage, then, somehow, an incandescent mirth. She started laughing. "Of course she did. Was she . . .happy?"

The Doctor smiled then, a real, if bashful, smile. "Yes. Very. He's a good man, good for her. Much love and adoration."

She nodded. "And she was spared the end of Gallifrey."

"Yes."

The Counsellor nodded. "Then I'm satisfied."

"You won't hunt me again."

"Unless you do something that deserves hunting."

This smile reflected some sincere affection. "Fair enough."

Sherlock scanned the faces of the Doctor's companions. They were incredulous. They didn't understand. They didn't have the advantage of their Time Lord's direct, unfiltered thoughts. He had an unbelievable advantage over them; as long as he had the Counsellor's hand, as long as he had her _trust_, he couldn't be hurt or deceived the way they had been.

She squeezed his hand. She'd heard his thoughts and was supporting them wholeheartedly.

"Goodbye, Doctor," she said simply.

"Goodbye, Counsellor," he said in return. He turned his attention to Sherlock. "And regards, Sherlock."

He dipped his head, the best courtesy he could give.

The Doctor and his three companions slipped back into their TARDIS and it ground its way out of the moon's environment.

_Why does it make that noise, Counsellor?_ He asked her.

She gave a little shrug and smiled at the blue planet hanging in rotation nearby. _He left the brakes on. He always does, the idiot._

Sherlock smiled and together they watched the Earth turn.


	19. Epilogues

**Part One**

"It's so much paper."

"Counsellor, that's what being on Earth is all about."

"What, the squandering of natural resources to prove you are who you are?" She flipped her passport open and showed Jack Harkness the photo he knew far too well already; after all, variations of it appeared on her newly-minted Washington state driver's license, English visa, and various other identifying documents granting her clearance to various governmental offices. "These photos – what happens if I regenerate? Do I have to kill a few more trees?"

"Probably."

She sighed and shoved all of her documentation into a file. "I'm not convinced that this is even necessary."

"You're going to be sharing a flat in London with the infamous Sherlock Holmes," Jack explained again, the patience in his voice wearing a bit thin. "People are going to be asking about you. You have to at least _pretend_ to be human."

"Why?"

"Because, as the Doctor proved several times over, the world is not ready to have an alien strutting around solving crimes."

The Counsellor pointed to where Sherlock was sitting uncomfortably across from his brother Mycroft. "If they can put up with him, they can put up with me."

"You know that's different."

"Not that different."

Jack sighed. "If they find out who and what you are, the race will be on to drain you of your blood and dissect your body. The human race is still pretty savage when it comes to how we try to understand things."

"But –"

"Please," he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. "Do this. For me." He reached into the file and pulled out a diploma. "Look, we even gave you a college degree."

"Yes, and a name. Astrid Smith. Fantastic."

"You gave yourself that name. I heard it with my own ears."

She sat back in a huff. Jack thought she might have been one of the most difficult creatures he'd ever met. No amount of charm worked on her, not even his, and that was – well, he'd seldom met a creature, human or alien, who could withstand his considerable charm. He often thought of it as his superpower.

Before he was able to get too upset over his failure to sway her to his point of view, he felt an odd rush of calm move through his system. The Doctor had told him, Martha, and Mickey about his ex-wife's talents, of course, but feeling it happen to him first-hand was something else entirely. He looked over at her and caught her eye. She smiled at him. "I meant no disrespect, Captain Harkness. I am grateful for your assistance."

He nodded. "You have my contact info. Let me know if you need anything else from Torchwood."

She nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock sensed the change in conversation from where he sat in Mycroft's office and rose. "Are we off, then?"

"Yes," the Counsellor agreed. "So much to do."

They walked out together, hand-in-hand.

Jack saw Mycroft flinch at the contact. "Are you okay?"

Mycroft frowned. "Me? Never better. But I am going to institute an aggressive surveillance schedule for those two."

Jack smiled. "And what do you think that might accomplish? We already have telepath sensors planted all over London."

"Let's just say it will be my own personal curiosity."

"Sounds dangerously like voyeurism." Jack shifted his stance. He was done here. "Have your agents escorted Dr. Jones-Smith and her family back to their home in York?"

Mycroft hummed his assent, distracted. He had turned to watch his brother and the Counsellor enter the bustling London streets together.

"We'll be in touch, Mr. Holmes."

That got Mycroft's attention. "What? Why? I thought our business was concluded."

Jack shrugged back into his military coat. "On the contrary. Your brother is in the custody of one of the only plain-clothes aliens on Earth. He is very much our business now, and, by extension, so are you." He gave the elder Holmes brother a curt nod. "Afternoon."

For some reason, Captain Jack Harkness enjoyed the look of consternation on Mycroft's face as he left.

* * *

**Part Two**

"Victim is from Dublin, male, middle-aged, right-handed, and a writer. He prefers using pen-and-ink over a computer; you can tell that from the indentation on his middle finger where he rests the pen he's writing with. He's been in London for approximately one week judging by the laundry in his suitcase. I doubt he had a mobile phone – did you find one?"

Lestrade frowned. He was staring at Sherlock's new "colleague," a pretty woman of about thirty-two years of age with odd ginger-and-ash hair and pretty blue eyes. He couldn't stop staring at her. She had the kind of face and figure that attracted attention.

"Lestrade!"

"Yes, what?"

"Mobile? Did he have a mobile phone?"

Lestrade looked around the crime scene, flustered. Donovan was smirking at him. "Did anyone find a mobile phone here?" he asked.

"No," she answered. She was standing near the woman, sizing her up, evaluating her as competition like all women did. Strangely she seemed to be aware she was being scrutinized. She turned and gave Donovan an open look, eyebrows raised.

"And who are you?" Donovan asked her.

"I'm the Counsellor," she answered smartly.

"The Counsellor?" Sally Donovan asked in her snarkiest tone. She pointed at Sherlock, who was still crouched over the corpse, trying to divine more clues from the minutiae. "_His_ counselor?"

"Funny. You think you're funny." The woman calling herself the Counsellor approached Donovan and narrowed her eyes at her. Her voice suddenly emulated the quick, efficient delivery Lestrade had most often heard from her companion. "You want everyone to think you're clever, don't you? But you're deeply insecure because deep down inside, you know you _aren't_ clever. You're remarkably average, and you strike out at any and everyone who reminds you of that. Because of that you call anyone who's better than you _freaks_ and _frauds_. You did that to Sherlock, once so thoroughly that he had to fake his own death to save the lives of his own friends." She stepped even closer to Donovan, right into her personal space, and tapped her chest with one well-manicured finger. "Listen to me, little Sally Donovan: if you do that to him ever again, I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"Yes."

"Counsellor." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble. "That's enough." Lestrade wasn't a genius at observation, not like Sherlock, but there was no way to miss the smirk on his face.

"She's threatened me," Donovan said, turning to Lestrade. "And you're going to let her –"

"Donovan, just stop," he said with a grumble. "You tend to be petty, and you know it." He held up a hand to silence her outrage. "And you _were_ wrong about Moriarty."

The room was filled with a suffocating tension – and then, suddenly, it wasn't. He cast his eyes over to Sherlock's new friend and saw a serene smile on her face. It was directed at him.

Sherlock approached him, holding up a folded slip of paper. "This was in the victim's pocket," he announced, handing Lestrade the paper. He opened it and saw a series of numbers scrawled on the inside. "He wrote that."

"And what is it?"

"My guess is it's a house number and a gate access code, followed by a phone number."

"But no words."

"No need." Sherlock leaned back on his heels. "He was a writer, had a way with words, perhaps even had mnemonic devices to keep words sorted in his mind. All he would need are the numbers. Trace the phone number."

Lestrade nodded. "Right."

Sherlock leaned even closer, his voice pitched to a whisper for confidentiality's sake. "Don't develop any infatuations, Greg. She'll break your heart." Sherlock leaned back and gave him a wide smile, then approached his new "colleague," took her hand in his, and strode away from the crime scene.

* * *

**Part Three**

Sherlock stepped out of the structure that looked like nothing more than a wardrobe. He was cross as he paced the large unused bedroom in the flat he now shared with the Counsellor.

"If you had just rearmed my key, we wouldn't have had such a difficult time with the Cybermen."

The Counsellor followed him out, laughing. "Oh, please. It was more fun this way."

"Fun? They could have _killed_ me. Do you find putting me in immediate danger fun?"

She stopped laughing, crossed her arms, and stared at him. He stared back.

The giggles built to guffaws. They both knew the answer. _Immediate danger_ was how she kept his frantic brain busy between cases. Dragging him all over the cosmos, seeking out thrill after thrill – she knew it was what he wanted. It was more than good.

It was perfect.

She drew closer to him and took his hand in hers.

_So, a text from Lestrade._

_Yes._

_Serial killer._

_Yes._

_Why did we come back to the flat first? Why didn't we just take the TARDIS to the crime scene?_

He frowned at her. _They'll start to notice if we don't at least sometimes arrive in a cab._

She rolled her eyes. _Ugh. Cabs. Cabs are boring._

He grinned at her and pulled her by the hand out of the wardrobe/TARDIS room and down the stairs to the street.

* * *

**Part Four**

_Are you bored yet? -SH_

Sherlock reviewed this old text message, still sitting in his draft messages on his mobile phone. The Counsellor had copied every detail from his old phone to this one, even this draft, this ugly little reminder of how desperately lonely he'd been just a few months before. He thought about his old friend, John Watson. He couldn't help but think of him. John was a bittersweet space in his mind, the first person he'd considered a true friend, and if he was being honest, he considered him a true friend even now.

_You were the blueprint_, he thought to himself, quietly contemplating the fate of this text message. _You taught me the start of what I needed._

He looked over at the newspaper sitting on the table next to him in the room he thought of as the Phantom Baker Street. _A flat within a spaceship within a flat_, he thought. He'd brought the newspaper in from the outside. It was open to the obituaries.

_MARY MORSTAN-WATSON, 33, WIFE OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON. Found by her husband dead at home late Tuesday night, victim of an apparent fall from the top floor of their building. _

He scanned the rest of the article, noting the tactful omission of the assumption that she'd committed suicide. The Counsellor's footfalls announced her arrival to this echo of Baker Street. She sat on the sofa, tactfully avoiding John's chair.

After several moments, she said a simple three words:

"Go to him."

_I don't know if I'd be welcome._

"He's your friend."

_I tried to stop them, stop their relationship._

"It's what friends do."

Sherlock's thoughts were a jumble. He couldn't focus.

"There's always room here for one more."

His eyes darted to her. Once again she'd gotten to the heart of it; what place for John Watson, all alone in the world again?

_Are you sure?_

"If you are, I am. Anyone important to you is important to me. Just . . .be sure to warn him not to become attached to me." She winked, rose, and left.

Sherlock considered the text message again, then quickly backspaced over the impertinent words and typed a new message:

_Tell me where we can meet. I'm sorry, John. –SH_

_SEND._

* * *

**_-END-_**

**_(for now)_**


End file.
